


If there's empty spaces in your heart, they'll make you think it's wrong

by orphan_account



Series: your heart is my sanctuary [1]
Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, But we're getting there, Friendship, Getting Together, Implied Past Self-Harm, M/M, Mark Centric, Personal Growth, Realism, Slow Build, Slow Burn, brief 2jae in further chapters, jinyoung goes to college, mark works in a bookstore, relatively based on the sanctuary au, sanctuary!au, slight profanity, some mentions of domestic abuse but it's not very explicit, very brief allusions to suicide, very very slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 64,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's been three years ever since Mark dropped out of high school, his whole body covered in grotesque clusters of ensanguished bruises, tender scars, and a few, slightly fractured ribs as he moved away to a new district when he knew he lost the wayward protection of violence and didn't belong anywhere anymore. He's been going through the motions of life, basking in the fleeting warmth of the bookstore he works at before inevitable solitude accompanies him like invisible ghosts and insomnia wraps its tendrils around his neck. That is, until he reunites with the boy he betrayed three years ago, only to discover that he is no longer the same person he was before. Maybe. Mark doesn't really believe in fate. But he does believe in forgiveness.





	1. empty spaces and an unexpected encounter.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm really nervous and excited because this is my first ever fan fiction I've ever written, and I chose to write a Markjin as my first one.  
> I really liked the characters they portrayed in Sanctuary, and I wanted to branch them out. I was also very loosely inspired by another fanfic here. I really liked the idea of the both of them meeting again after a period of time where they've changed completely while retaining their previous characteristics.  
> Anyways, I hope I did my summary justice! I might edit it If the plot changes but I hope the first chapter is okay!

Thick clouds of a gun-metal grey permeated the sky as the orchestra of rain finally stopped pouring over the breadth of Seoul. It was a placid afternoon, the quietude of the bookstore tethered with soft murmurs from a few customers presently browsing through the shelves. Those who took shelter from the rain departed in rapidity once the rain had stopped, but the bookstore’s warm ambience had managed to capture some customers into staying longer. 

_Sylvia Plath, Arthur Miller, Banana Yoshimoto, James Joyce, Truman Capote._

With a pile of new books in his arms, he catalogued each novel into their respective shelves by their genres and last names, repeating them in his mind. He smiled and nodded politely to customers in the same aisles as him, but other than that, he worked silently.  
The bookstore he worked at was doing well despite its small size due to its broad spectrum of distinct kinds of literature in a variety of languages. There was a plethora of prominent novels by famous American authors and best-selling novels that were put onto display, as well as a balance of Korean literature. With the bookstore’s homely management and literary diversity, it became rather favoured among numerous age groups, albeit the business was quiet and calm. Some days, there would be less than ten people per day, or no one at all, but with its pleasant antiquity and the simple beauty of the store, it never failed to attract new customers. 

_C.S. Lewis, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, Oh Jung-hee, Kim Young-ha, Khaled Hosseini._

He looked out the windows splattered with dewy rain drops. The sun was starting to peek through the thick tufts of grey clouds, spilling resplendent light through the glass that illuminated the warm interior of the store. He rolled up the sleeves of his monochrome striped sweater after he was done with the pile of books and stretched his arms, looking around leisurely. It was merely early afternoon and he estimated that there were only about seven people browsing around the store. Weekdays weren’t as busy as weekends, but even then, there wasn’t much of a crazy crowd. The profusion of customers was unpredictable and varied between normal days and holidays that required gift buying. 

He acknowledged that working in a bookstore especially wasn’t as stimulating as other retail berths, but Mark loved it no matter how boring the outsiders would’ve viewed the career as. He loved the scent of parchment paper, of brand new paperbacks, of limited editions of esteemed novels. He loved experiencing the slight happiness that would swell in his chest when he’d catch small, fleeting smiles of customers indulging in a book they’ve found and the excited looks when they’d purchase their selected texts. He loved the humble, serene environment, the iridescence of the golden ceiling lights that illuminated the whole store in an endearing aura of brilliance, the cherry wooden shelves and revolving racks and cozy decor that made the store tender and welcoming, and loved being surrounded by a surfeit of classical compositions written in the prime of an era. He didn’t need to be flashy or overly enthusiastic, and wasn’t forced to talk to strangers unless necessary.

He thought this kind of career was a good fit for him too. Perhaps it didn’t pay well, but it was a job that Mark genuinely enjoyed doing. It was better than wasting away his money on school and tuition when he knew that he wouldn’t be able to succeed in that kind of academic pursuit. That’s why he didn’t continue his studies after he dropped out of highschool, even when he moved away to settle into a new district. 

He found it kind of ironic, however. Mark himself wasn’t much of an avid reader because he could rarely find the right book that was gripping enough to draw his whole attention. That didn’t mean he didn’t use his workplace as an advantage to find the right read, though. However, he did have an affinity for poetry, even if he struggled most of the time trying to decipher the florid lexicon and intricate symbolisms. 

Mark headed towards the stock room where the inventory and the new merchandise was, waiting to be shelved and displayed. As he grabbed more piles of books into his arms-- wishing they had a cart to make the procedure much more easier--he sauntered out and approached his co-worker dawdling around behind the counter, seemingly bored. 

“What are you doing?” Mark placed the books down on the counter as he looked over his co-worker’s shoulder, trying to take a glimpse at his doodling.

“Mark!” He screeched, whirling around in surprise. He dramatically clutched his heart, staring at him as if he was an entity of another world. “You scared me! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry.” Mark deadpanned, restraining himself from rolling his eyes. He grabbed the sheet of paper Jackson was doodling on, and realized that he wasn’t doodling at all but instead, was writing phrases and sentences in characters of different languages: Korean, English, and Chinese. “What are you doing?”

“I was bored. Ennui was eating up all my insides.” Jackson complained, crossing his arms. “Since I had nothing to do, I was just practicing my linguistics, you know, to keep up my fluentness. And it’s better than standing here all day staring at a wall.” 

Mark hummed, nodding as he handed the paper back. “You should look more happy in what you’re doing, though. I think you’re scaring the customers away from approaching the till. You looked kind of constipated when you were focusing on your languages.”

“I do not look constipated.” Jackson scoffed, narrowing his eyes at him. 

Mark shrugged, picked up his hill of books, and headed towards the shelves.

Another day of work, another day of peace-- something he still hasn’t gotten used to yet. 

\--------

_Mary Lou Angelou, Kim Dong-in, J.D. Salinger, Harper Lee, Milan Kundera, Paulo Coelho._

It was another melancholy morning, with the rain driving new yet aggravated customers into the store to take shelter from the unpredictable weather. Noticing that the majority of them didn’t seem to have an interest in the bookstore itself, Mark took the time to read the summaries at the back of each book that recently arrived from shipping. There was still a mountainous pile in the back that needed to be shelved as well, but considering that it wasn’t particularly busy at the moment, he figured he’d reserve such tedious work for the remainder of his shift so he could keep himself occupied all day to avoid boredom. 

He looked and furrowed his eyebrows slightly at the sight of Jackson trying to balance a pencil on the tip of his nose, making a succession of rather unpleasant yet funny faces in the process. Mark snorted and coughed, holding back a smile as he turned around and headed towards the other direction.

_Moon Chung-hee, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Guillaume Musso, Miyuki Miyabe._

As he was putting away the books, a particularly simple and recognizable cover caught his eye. It was Robert Frost’s Collection of Poems in the pale hands of a young, polished man in one of the poetry aisles whom Mark assumed was sick, with the face mask he had on. He’s read some of Robert Frost’s works, but there was this one particular poem from his Collection of Poems he took a liking to. 

_"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,_  
_And sorry I could not travel both_  
_And be one traveler, long I stood  
_ _And looked down one as far as I could."_

There were more, but that was all Mark could remember. It was a shame he couldn’t remember the title. He felt the urge to take a look through that book to find it, but it was in the hands of a stranger. However, knowing that there were customers who were genuinely interested in the bookstore and not as a refugee from the rain was enough to lift his spirits a little higher. He returned his attention back to work with the unforgotten poem lingering in the back of his mind, unaware of a pair of eyes with a glint of familiarity quietly watching him. 

\--------

 

_Chinua Achebe, Lin Yutang, Kim Seung-hee, Kurt Vonnegut, Jane Austen, Vladimir Nabo--_

“That’s one of my favourites.” 

Startled from the sudden, muffled voice, Mark looked up from the summary he was reading. He slowly recognized that he was the young man from yesterday, which was a surprise; his raven black hair slightly disheveled yet profoundly soft-looking with bangs slightly falling over his dark intense eyes, and he still had on that white medical mask. He had Robert Frost’s Collection of Poems in his hands once again, and Mark supposed he was back to purchase it with finality. However, Mark was caught off guard for a moment. Customers rarely talked to him unless they wanted a book from one of the displays or if he was managing the cash register. It was never to strike up a conversation out of a blue. He didn’t want to be rude, however, so he flashed a tiny smile, even if small talks weren’t his specialty. 

“I’ve never read Despair before.” He simply confessed, glancing down at the eerie book cover. 

“It’s ingenious.” The young man’s voice was muted behind the face mask, but for some reason, it caused an undefinable discomfort that was marginally familiar to flicker fleetingly in his chest and Mark couldn’t quite place why. “Nabokov’s works are brilliant. Rather controversial, but brilliant.”

“Oh.” Was all he could think of. He didn’t know what else he could say as he looked back down at the book. He’s heard of the author many times, especially for his prominent novel Lolita, but perhaps because the author’s style was too convoluted and complex for his mind to quickly wrap around, his lack of quick comprehension causes him to stray off into distraction. But he’s always wanted to give one of his books a try. 

The young man didn’t say anything else as well, but he didn’t move too. Mark could feel his eyes on him though, sharp and perceptive as daggers that bore jagged holes into his whole being. It provoked an uneasiness to sprout in the dread of his stomach, and in lieu of reciprocating the rather acute eye contact, his eyes flickered to the Collection of Poems by Robert Frost in his hands, attempting to disperse the unusual silence between them. 

“I like his work.” Mark said, nodding to the book. The young man followed his gaze and brought the book up from his side to examine it. Mark continued, “I really like this one poem in there. I can’t remember the title, though.”

The stranger hummed, opening the book and flipping through a couple of pages. Then, he brought it up towards Mark’s vicinity. “Find it.” He jerked his arm forward, prompting him when Mark merely blinked at him blankly. “Go on. Find your poem.” 

After a moment of hesitation, Mark complied and accepted the book. Subsequently, he started fishing through the pages in fervent search, feeling small under the stranger’s deep scrutiny. It took him about a minute before he fell on the right page, recognizing the first few lines. He read the title over and over again, engraving it into his mind as he skimmed the whole poem before he held the page up towards the young man, a soft smile flitting over his face in content now that he’s figured out the title of a poem he took a liking to. 

“This one. The Road Not Taken.” 

The stranger reached for the book back and took his time reading it. Mark realized that he was probably staring at the page now, because it shouldn’t have taken that long to read the whole piece, and he could see the faint furrow of his brow. After a sustained moment, he looked up, and there was something unreadable in his dark eyes. Something knowing. 

“How ironic.” He commented, taking a quick glance back down at the poem before he closed it. Mark looked at him, nonplussed. “Thank you for your time.” 

Mark watched as the young man turned around before he could even formulate a single word. The young man wrapped in mystery headed towards the cash register to make his pay and exited the bookstore while clutching the book tightly in his hands. Mark was staring at the door, confused by their perplexing and disconcerting interaction that left him in a dumbfounded rumination. He wondered what the stranger meant by “ironic” and if he was poking fun at his taste in poetry or not, but there was a look in his eyes that sent a nettling shudder down his spine, all too familiar and unfamiliar. 

\-------- 

Mark saw him again a week later. 

He was handling the cash register and it was a relatively slow day, which was nothing out of the ordinary. Mark watched as the young man placed four relatively familiar books down onto the white counter. He still had that medical mask on, and elicited an air of solemnity. 

“Ah.” Mark blinked in surprise and ventured on without much thought. “Are you still ill?” 

“Hello to you too.” He replied flatly while he searched for his wallet in his leather book bag. 

Mark apologized sheepishly as he scanned the barcodes of the books in a perfunctory manner. “I recognize you from a week ago. I was just a little surprised because a cold usually lasts for a couple of days, so I was just wondering.” 

“Not everyone has a strongly fortified immune system.” He shrugged languidly in response. “But no, I’m not ill. At least, not anymore.” He said as he took out his wallet, his eyes lifted to stare at him unabashedly with an unnerving and dark overcast. Mark fidgeted underneath his stare, but his own expression contorted into a look of confusion. The young man continued, glancing down at his wallet, a casualness tethered to his tone. “You won’t like what’s underneath.”  
Before Mark could even respond, he had quickly changed the subject. “I finished the book by Robert Frost. I genuinely enjoyed his poems. You have nice taste in poetry.” 

“Oh.” Mark blinked. “Thanks.” Still muddled by what the young man meant, he realized he had paused and quickly resumed back to checking out the items, but he couldn’t help but steer back into that odd topic again. 

“Why do you think I won’t like what’s underneath? I’m not afraid.” Mark managed a slight smile, although judging by the stiffness at the edges of his mouth, his smile must have looked sad. “I’ve been afraid my whole life until I became desensitized it. Try me.”  
His brown eyes was immediately arrested by the familiar sea-green cover with a young Asian woman placidly posing in the center holding a bundle of variegated flowers. His countenance brightened at the sight of the thin book, too distracted in his own muted excitement that he didn’t hear the soft rustle of a mask being impulsively taken off. “Ah, I’ve read this book. Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto. It’s usually hard for me to stay interested in certain books, but this one was beautiful and managed to capture my attention. Her works are truly captivating. Have you--” 

Mark had looked up with a sincere smile, but it quickly diminished into a parted crevice of disbelief and astonishment as he apprehended the painfully familiar face before him. He wondered for a fraction of a second if his eyes were deceiving him, merely manifesting an illusion of the boy he hasn’t seen in three years--the boy he’s forcibly repressed into the deep-seated depths of his memories, but as he processed every recognizable dip and curve of his stoic features, it was harrowing to realize that the details of his face were still vivid in his memories, unforgotten but just untouched. It was all too consuming, too lucid--his breath hitched and he couldn’t think anymore. Seeing his face felt like a punch to the gut. 

“Are you afraid now?” He said lowly, leaning forward slightly, his eyes never losing its fervent intensity, yet there was something plaintive about the gleam in his irises. “It’s been a while, Mark-hyung.” 

“Junior.” He managed a whisper, too stunned to fully formulate a coherent sentence. He didn’t know if this was just one of his many nightmares, fantasy pulled into living reality, but everything was too real and unreal at the same time. He had never expected to see him again, especially when he didn’t look like the angry boy in greedy pursuit for power three years ago. He’s changed drastically, from his outward and inward appearance. It was creating ripples in his mind that caused his nerves to go haywire in a wild frenzy of trepidation.  
He watched as the young man’s expression darken and twist into something of distaste from the name he uttered and he leaned back, receding from Mark’s personal vicinity. Any notion of thought was deprived from Mark’s brain except for one.

“Why are you here?”

Junior was fishing out money from his wallet, feigning indifference by the looks of it through the sudden minor stiffness in his movements. “I live on campus. But what a coincidence, really. I didn’t expect to find you here. How long has it been since we've seen each other?” His voice, Mark noticed, wasn’t full of vitriolic hatred and destruction like it perpetually was anymore. It was less hungry for blood and more subdued into an octave of placidity. He still had that lilt of wryness, but it was much different. Much more different. 

_It's been three years ever since you left me for dead, bloody and bruised from the acrimonious fists of your goons. Three years ever since I turned my back on you and ran away._ But of course he left all those things out. “Three years.” 

It seemed as though he heard those unspoken words and read Mark’s mind. He had on that sardonic smile, muted over the years, yet a bitter filigree dripped from the hollows of his simple words. “You seem to be doing very well. Isn’t that nice--oh, but you look a little bit pale. Are you eating enough, _hyung?_ You didn’t catch the cold, now, did you?” 

Mark stared at him blankly. He suddenly remembers the time where Junior had ordered his lackeys to go away before roughly grabbing Mark by the arm to drag him to a nearby diner in apathetic, impatient offerance. They didn’t have top quality food and was cheap, but it was enough to quench his gargantuan hunger when he ravenously ate everything they ordered. He had been starving for two days straight, and Junior must have noticed it. Whether it was from the desperate glint in his eyes or his immense lack of strength, Mark didn’t know back then, but he was grateful. Too grateful to stop and question Junior’s sudden kindness that was out of character for him, even if he seemed irritable and sanctimonious throughout the whole time. 

Why did that memory appear now?

Swallowing the bile down his throat while trying to stop the propelling current of forsaken recollections from emerging, he muttered the total amount after he managed to check out all the items. He willed his hands to stay still as he accepted the cash before giving him the exact change. After Junior placed his purchased books into his bag, neither of them moved. They stayed there for what seemed to be hours, days, a suffocating eternity, staring at each other in mutual distrust and familiarity, until Junior broke away from their world

“Maybe I’ll see you around, hyung. I like the books here. It has everything I need.” 

The notion that Junior, who never had an interest or care in his academic pedestal and future vocation and would rather spend his days proving that he was stronger than the other factions of gangs, is going to college was, in simple words, unbelievable and shocking. But Mark found himself nodding anyways. There were still so many questions ringing in his head, waiting to be answered. Why he was so curious, he couldn’t explain it, but as he watched Junior leave the bookstore, he felt the world disperse beneath his feet. All he could hear was the fluting chime of the bell as the door clicked shut, the pattering inauguration of the dismal rain descending upon the roof of the store and against the hazy windows. The buried memories and feelings of his turbulent youth that took every ounce of his survival instinct to obliterate from his everyday disposition was slowly unwinding from its incarceration, the tingling footprints of disloyal ghosts taking ahold of his mind once again, and it felt futile to stop it. 

He wasn't afraid, he realized, but he didn't know what he was feeling at all.


	2. rumination of an empty space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a bit longer than the first chapter, but that's because I got a bit overboard.  
> I also hope that I was able to convey Mark's quiet personality, because as a quiet person myself, I don't speak a lot but my mind is always buzzing with so many thoughts, and I wanted to display that here with how he views things, especially with how he can be detailed and perceptive of his surroundings and how he watches instead of talking. Also, loooots of introspection, self-deprecation, and internal monologue. OTL  
> Constructive criticism is welcomed too!  
> Anyways, enjoy!

Mark couldn’t sleep at all, but it was normal for him. He’d go weeks without proper sleep or without any sleep at all, and if he was even lucky, maybe sometimes he would’ve been able to sneak a few hours of slumber before dawn would wake him. It wasn’t the suffocating thoughts that always kept him awake all the time, though. Sometimes, he would stare blankly up at the ceiling while he lied down on his bed. He’d feel vacant. Hollow. Like there were empty spaces in his heart, pumping blood to keep him alive but no stimuli to keep him feeling. It was strange, how he longed for quietude sempiternally in his youth, yet now he dreaded every silent moment of it when internally, he was all but peaceful. 

But now, his thoughts were swarming restlessly in his brain. 

His mind always wandered back to Junior, how much he’s changed, how much softer he looks. How unexpected their meeting was. How he carried multitudes of classic literature in his hands with an earnest gait, solemnity replacing the enmity he had had in his posture back then, how his light blue turtleneck and black pea coat contrasted the rebellious outfits he’d wear in outright delinquency. How his eyes lacked the fierce antagonism of a predator, no longer hungry for prey, a sullen and a tinge of plaintiveness surrounding his deep, brown eyes. Everything about him was different--there was no doubt about it, but Mark could see the remnants of his former character, the unabashed wryness and daunting expressions, the storm in him still alive yet dormant. Mark still believed that he was merely dreaming, because there was no way that Junior was capable of this kind of change. 

The day he had moved away to a new district was the inauguration of the process of leaving his past behind, even if it was through reluctant tears and angry fists driven to the wall, because he knew he was no longer welcomed in that place he was on the verge of calling his second home. How absurd it truly was at that moment to call a gang his second home when it was merely a survival stratagem for Mark, but it was an environment that was able to help dissipate the inherent loneliness Mark felt. But now, with Junior’s uncalled reappearance in his life, Mark didn’t know how to conceive what he was feeling. It wasn’t terror. It wasn’t fury. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t sadness or bitterness--funny, really, when he should be, but then again, Mark knew the exact moment that he lent a helping hand to BamBam, his actions forebode the ramifications that would seek him in the end. He was beaten until he couldn’t feel anything, just pain. Now, the pain was replaced by something else he couldn’t quite decipher. It was strange and uncomfortable. 

Mark turned to his side, facing the dull grey wall. He wrapped himself tightly in his blanket as the ticking of his clock echoed against the dismal stillness of his apartment. He could hear the gentle tintinnabulations and muffled voice of his owlish neighbor next door, and the billowing gust of wind rushing past his shut windows. Restless, he reached across to grab his cellphone from his small, cherry wooden nightstand, and checked for the time: 2:06AM. However, he perked up when he realized he had received a couple of messages a few hours ago from none other than Jackson:

 _hey man_  
_u still coming right? it’s hot pot night  
_ _Jb’s treating tmr so we get to call as much food possible_

 

Mark shut his phone without replying and placed it back on the nightstand, bringing his hands back inside his blanket cocoon. Jackson went to college too, majoring in humanitarian studies, and his college wasn’t very far from the bookstore, merely half an hour away if he were to take the subway. With his spontaneous, outgoing personality, it wasn’t a surprise he quickly made friends with strangers from the get-go. That was where he met Im Jaebum when they were both freshman, who was now majoring in biochemistry. Why they always bothered with inviting him, Mark didn’t know. He was guarded, quiet, and never to initiate small talks. He thought he was boring and dull as the monotony of a rundown ceiling, but Jackson was always persistent in his endeavors to get him to talk--even about the most simplest things on earth. Mark was undeniably grateful of their presence, but their friendly gestures always seemed alien to him and left him unsettled, because he didn’t know if they could be considered friends or not.

In the end, Mark couldn’t bring himself to muster up a decent reply. As he lied there on bed, sleepless and introspective, he was suddenly aware of how incredibly silent and morose his apartment was. Sucking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes once more. On the rift of consciousness, all he could think about was his hometown that was no longer his home, bruised knuckles and broken ribs and black eyes, his father’s warm yet distorted embrace, fierce hands around his neck, and the dark, piercing gaze of a familiar young man whose eyes sparked with bitter indignation and disgust at his betrayal and broken promises.

 

\--------

“You okay, dude?” 

Mark started and looked up, clenching his plastic water bottle a bit too tightly out of reflex. Jackson was looking down at him, his eyebrows furrowed in a face of concern. Mark bit his lip and looked back down, shrugging.

“I’m fine.”

“I think we have very different definitions of what _fine_ is.” Jackson said, still studying Mark. He knew that he looked terrible due to his lack of sleep. The bags underneath his eyes along with his dark circles accentuated the fatigued countenance of his, and made his sleeplessness a lot more conspicuous than it should be. “Did you even sleep?”

Mark couldn’t help but laugh at that, “I _never_ sleep.” 

“Well, then you should’ve seen my messages.” Jackson looked past Mark’s comment as a quip, a childish pout on his lips. “You’re coming tonight, right? After work? You look like you need a break-- to loosen up a bit.”

Although he wasn’t in high spirits, he thought it would at least be a good idea to get his mind off of things. He wanted a night of tranquility and composure, even if it was a short-lived moment. Just the thought of it was enough to meliorate his suffocating mind, and thus, he nodded after a prolonged silence of contemplation. “Yeah, sure.” 

“Great!” Jackson exclaimed excitedly, whipping out his phone on the job. “Table for four!” 

“Huh?” Mark looked at him quizzically before he turned his head when he noticed a customer waiting in line. He immediately contrived a forced smile and murmured polite greetings, putting his water bottle to the side before wishing them a good day after he finished dealing with their purchases, and turned his attention back to Jackson when no one else came to the counter. “Why four?”

“Oh, right,” Jackson looked up from his phone, “JB’s bringing along his friend from school too. Apparently, he’s his new roommate and the guy’s just as asocial as a bobcat’s ass, kinda like you. How he managed to invite the guy, I have no idea.” 

Mark frowned. He felt exhausted just thinking about interacting with a stranger he wasn’t familiar with. He felt a pit widen in the breadth of his stomach, and Jackson seemed to notice his sudden change in demeanor and sighed in understanding, giving Mark a supportive slap to his back.

“Don’t worry about it, man. It’ll be my first time meeting him too! Any friend of JB is a friend of mine, and any friend of mine is a friend of yours. Hell, who knows? Maybe you guys’ll get along with each other and find something in common. Sounds fun, right?” Jackson grinned with a youthful excitement that lit up his face, and all Mark could do was halfheartedly shrug in ambiguity.

Jackson shoved his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, and leaned against the counter, musing. “I just hope the guy doesn’t nitpick our Korean and our pronunciation. That kind of shit annoys the hell out of me.”

Mark wordlessly couldn’t agree more.

 

\---------

 

The sky had been a soft palette of a warm, tangerine hue, the clouds outlined in neon before late afternoon had transitioned into a spry evening, the pewter dome bestrewn with faint stars that reached beyond the horizon, the last fading gradient of orange dimming as night consumed it. The tall buildings and shops, caught in the center of the night’s chiaroscuro, softly glowed as their signs lit up in lambent, variegated colours. The streets were bustling with burbling chatter. The both of them, off work and on their way to the restaurant after riding the subway, strolled down the road. Jackson, loud with vivid chatter, was gesticulating wildly as he recounted his recent, mischievous antics back at his dorm with his friends. His blonde hair was wildly tousled from the gusts of wind, illuminated in patches of dimmed colours from the neon signs. Mark found his gaze wandering around, studying passersby in introspection and with placid curiosity about their own, secret lives--their own stories. He had laughed at something Jackson said, but he couldn’t remember what as his attention focused back and forth between his co-worker and the reverie he found himself zoning out in. 

As they neared the hot pot house that was lit up in soft signs to draw in customers, Jackson asked him with enthusiastic expectancy, “Do you want to drink this time?”

Mark shook his head. “I like to be sober.” 

“You must have been the life of the parties, huh?” Jackson quipped harmlessly, but Mark could only crack a tiny, blue smile. 

They grabbed open the door, the bell ringing a mellifluous chime as they entered. They were immediately greeted with a surge of warmth radiating from the heaters, the domestic interior simple and dark brightly lit with overhead lights tinged in yellow, the aroma of cooked meat and spicy kimchi filling his nose, the calm chatter of individual tables that were filled to the brim. They were acknowledged with politeness from the employees, the perfunctory way a customer would be treated, before Jackson mentioned their friends already had a table, and they made their way around in search for Jaebum. 

“Wow, it’s pretty busy tonight,” Jackson turned his head around to throw in a comment.

“It’s a Saturday. It’s always busy on weekends,” Mark replied, quickly apologizing to a table of people when he accidentally knocked into one of their chairs. He looked up when Jackson exclaimed in recognition.

“Jaebum-” Jackson hesitated for a quick second when he remembered about honorifics after talking about him so freely without it, “- _hyung_!”

Mark snorted at his last-minute addendum. As they approached the table already covered in an orderly variety of vegetables, raw meat and seafood waiting to be descended into the metal pot of boiling water, he saw two heads of black hair, but he couldn’t see their faces because their backs were facing them, until Jaebum turned around at his name. His eyes roamed to Jaebum and his easy smile who exchanged pleasantries and a cheeky persiflage with Jackson, knocking him lightly on the head at his stilted vociferation before they erupted into laughter. Mark watched them for a warm second before he was aware of a set of eyes on him, and his gaze fell immediately onto the other head of raven hair next to Jaebum, the yellow light tracing the feathery, neat strands that gleamed beneath it. Mark felt his own eyes widen, comically almost, at the familiar face before him, taken aback in dumbfounded disbelief. Even Junior was surprised, his eyebrows raising as high as they could go in incredulity. 

_Fuck._

Mark didn’t know if the world was playing a cruel joke on him, if the world thought it was entertaining to watch Mark stare at Junior like a lost child, like he was seeing something entirely foreign and inconceivable. He wanted to laugh at the arbitrary coincidences that brought them back together again because he couldn’t believe this was happening--couldn’t believe that Junior went to college with his co-worker and his co-worker’s _friends._

He didn’t know what to do. 

For a split second, he wanted to run. He wanted to turn around and scurry away out the door, to sprint down the road in a thrill of desperation and denial, to run away like he did before, but his feet stayed planted on the dark wooden floor. He felt all eyes on him, now, the clinking of laughter and palaver dimming in the backdrop. 

“Dude, you okay? Sit down.” Jackson tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, giving him a weird look. Snapping out of his thoughts, Mark jerked in surprise and opened his mouth. He closed it again and uncouthly took a seat beside Jackson, swallowing down his nerves as he looked anywhere but at Junior.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mark,” Jaebum smiled in greeting, and Mark returned the smile as well, but rather stiff, “I thought you wouldn’t come again, but I guess Jackson managed to persuade you this time, huh?” 

“More like annoy,” Mark corrected him, but couldn’t bring himself to sound carefree about it. They didn’t seem to notice the uneasiness in his lilt, and Jackson proceeded to querulously complain about something, but Mark didn’t pay attention. He lifted his eyes to study Junior, who reciprocated the eye contact with the same intensity he had when they met at the bookstore, but now, there was an edge of uncertainty that wavered in his pupils. His irises looked fairer underneath the light, Mark noticed. 

“Ah, right,” Jaebum spoke up brightly, “Mark, Jackson, this is Park Jinyoung, my roommate.”

“You’re a sophomore like us, right? But only a few months younger?” Jackson asked as he opened up the lid of the pot, stirring the pieces of meat that were cooking in the boiling water that was a spicy hue of red.

“Yes,” Junior nodded. 

“Nice to meet you, then!” Jackson optimistically extended a hand for him to shake, and Junior took it out of courtesy. “I’m Jackson. The quiet one over here is Mark.” He jutted a thumb towards him, nudging an elbow to Mark’s side but he didn’t say anything, too busy inspecting the food splayed around him. 

"I've heard many complaints about you, Jackson-ssi. He said I should meet the real thing to understand how annoying you really are." There was some humour to his tone, his small smile lopsided. Jackson made a noise of disbelief, feigning dramatic hurt and offense before he exchanged quips and witty banter with Jaebum, laughing.

“They don’t really care about honorifics being used on them, but that’s probably because they’re foreigners,” Jaebum smirked, calling over a waitress that was about to walk past them. He called for three bottles of soju.

Jackson smugly grinned. “Totally, but I also don’t mind being called hyung.” 

“Make it four.” Mark interrupted Jaebum ordering, and watched as the waitress drifted off to grab them their drinks. 

Jackson side-eyed him curiously, “I thought you weren’t drinking.” 

Mark dumped the whole bowl of neatly chopped radishes into the grumbling pot, “I changed my mind.” 

“Huh, okay,” Jackson shrugged with a smug grin, “that makes the night even more fun!” 

While Jackson indulged in a joyous conversation with Jaebum, putting things in the pot and taking the cooked contents out to eat, Mark could feel Junior’s eyes on him every fleeting moment. Sometimes, Mark would find himself stealing glances at him, full of vivid disbelief before he had to force himself to look away before both of their eyes could meet simultaneously. His stomach was lurching, his knees shaking up and down in jittery apprehension, and shoved a large portion of kimchi into his mouth that was more than necessary, and did what he could to avoid the astute looks from the other. When their bottles of soju came, Mark snatched one with a sense of urgency and popped the cap open, downing it in immediacy to quell the butterflies gnawing away at the pit of his stomach. He let out a sigh, realizing he drank almost half of the soju.

“I’ve never seen you drink like that, like your life depended on it,” Jackson commented lightheartedly, sharing the same surprised look as Jaebum. 

Mark didn’t say anything as he studied the shadow of the upright green bottle before his eyes roamed around. There was a table of ten, unabashedly loud and hearty as laughter erupted from their circle. Rosy cheeks, their necks flushed to their faces, heads thrown back in animalistic hollers. There was another table with only two people--a couple, he supposed--quiet and placid, mouths opening in murmurs as they ate in comfortable silence with the warmth of each other’s presence. Another table of five, all moon-faced women dressed in sartorial, immaculate outfits, bright-lipped smiles; another table, full of ruddy-looking men in suits with unbuttoned collars and loosened ties, laughing in the midst of alleviating the tension in their shoulders; another table of--

“Mark-hyung.”

Mark snapped his eyes back to Junior, who was taking a large swig of his bottle of soju first. Mark was dazed for a slight moment at his sudden, unexpected initiation for a conversation. Jaebum and Jackson were too invested in their own heated discussion to notice them. Junior placed his bottle down, and slowly raised his sable eyes. The edge of his lips quirked, not high enough to reach his eyes.  
“Your Korean has improved a lot,” He simply said. 

Mark blinked--once, twice. His grip loosened from how tightly he held his bottle, and was conscious of how the fluttering whorls of trepidation in his stomach slowly disappeared into something calmer, something more stable and less turbulent. “Thanks.” 

That got their attention. 

Jackson spewed out some of his meat as he spoke rapidly in astonishment, “Wait, wait you guys know each other?”

Junior turned to look at him, “Yes.”

“Wow, really? That’s a coincidence. How’d you guys meet?” Jaebum raised his eyebrows in the same level of bewilderment. 

“It’s kind of a funny story.” Junior said, briefly meeting eyes with Mark. Incisive. Knowing. His countenance sparked with a manner of flippancy, his sharp and cool features softened from the alcohol, his supple voice lacking its usual bite. “We met in high school, then we parted ways when Mark-hyung dropped out. Isn’t that right?”

Mark cleared his throat when he realized the three of them were waiting for his answer. He croaked, “Yeah.” 

Jackson whooped with delight, his eyes sparkling at the new knowledge, “That’s even better! We’re basically all friends, then, right? Goddamn, why didn’t you two speak up sooner? Jeez, no matter Mark looked so awestruck.” He grinned, throwing an arm around him with twinkling eyes. 

“You were busy talking about how human saliva has a boiling point three times of regular water,” Junior deadpanned, “I didn’t know how to rival with that.”

Jaebum snorted, and Jackson cackled at that, “Point taken. You know, I haven’t seen you around campus, Jinyoung, and we’re both sophomores. What are you majoring in?” 

From their full-fledged conversation which Mark didn’t partake in, he learned that Junior was majoring in sociology with a minor in Korean literature, that he spent his leisure time reading all kinds of books in the library, which was where he first met Jaebum, and that he worked part-time as a writing tutor to kids at a learning center he often commutes to. Mark still couldn’t help but question his own vigilance, whether he was still dreaming and if his reality was warped from sleepless nights, but as he attentively listened to their conversation-- to the revelation of Junior’s academic life and how _well_ he was doing, he realized that he really, _really_ changed. The disparity between his character now and back then was tremendously huge. 

Junior wasn’t the same anymore. Watching the sides of his lips ply into an elastic smile, his eyes crinkling as he laughed mildly at something Jackson said in their conversation, the wry remarks he would send their way from time to time--he adorned this certain, subdued playfulness and a humor unthinkable. These were traits that Mark couldn’t even begin to fathom--to possibly imagine the past Junior to possess. Perhaps it was the buzz of the alcohol that made him softer, less serious and less reserved, but even back then when he drank in secrecy, he never came close to looking or acting like he did right now. 

How did he change? What--or _who_ \--was even capable of changing Junior, the leader who fed on power and superiority, into a person who now embodied a tranquil stoicism, as undisturbed as a clear pond; to alter his disposition into a calm landscape, carved with an unseen beauty? Who had been able to touch Junior’s deeply hidden heart, composed of cracked curlicues of an inferiority complex? Who had been able to make him smile like that? Who had been able to encourage him to pursue further education, to make him realize his own intelligence and potential?

These endless seams of questions clouded his vision and he shut his eyes. A sharp pang filled his chest, and he didn’t know why, but perhaps the notion that someone else had managed to influence a spur of change in Junior caused a disquieting realization. They had been ‘best friends’, and Mark had always sensed a faint, unspoken chemistry that lingered between them ever since their first meeting, but maybe in the end, ‘best friends’ was merely just an empty label and nothing more. Now, Mark was left with a heavy anchor dislocating his thoughts. He couldn't help but wonder about himself. Did _he_ change? Did he become more reclusive, more guarded and dispirited, with a straitjacket wrapped around his brain that restrained him from connecting with other people? Or did he never change at all, still the same, quiet person? Or perhaps, he’d only become more dull, boring, a ceaseless tedium that was made to sink to the background and merge with the stale shadows. 

A stifling coldness embraced him as his eyes wandered to his slightly quivering hands. Maybe it was the guilt that caused him to tremble--the guilt of lacking any belief in Junior, from accepting the fact that he was a goner and that he wouldn’t be able to be any more than the angry person he was, even if he deeply knew that he _was_ more than that. But maybe that was why they understood each other well, because Mark lacked any belief in himself too. That’s why he felt a strange, ephemeral warmth back then, knowing that he didn’t walk down the road of a lightless future all alone. 

But Junior had a future now. He was aiming to be _someone_ , as unbelievable as that was. It was laughable, really, how the tables have turned. Mark had always wondered in cursory moments if he was locked up in a lousy cell from a crime, violence still burning alive in his eyes, finding a home among the habitat of futureless souls. How he wanted to smile in bitterness at the irony of fates, something he lacked any conviction in, yet here Mark was, still nothing with no ambition to go far.

And he will always, always be nothing. 

“Mark?” Jaebum noticed the difference in his silence. They turned their heads to face him. “Are you alright?”

Mark mustered a rigid smile, his lips twitching. “I’m fine.”

He could tell that they were dubious about it, but they also knew that Mark wouldn’t want to talk about it, so they docilely continued on with their conversation. Mark looked away, his smile fading into a diminutive frown as he nervously gnawed at his bottom lip, ignoring Junior’s lingering stare. 

\------

 

Mark watched as Jaebum hoisted the drunk blonde’s arm around his shoulder and dragged him out of the near-empty restaurant. They were all rosy and flushed from the consumption of beer and from the heat of the piquant food, and as they stepped outside, they were immediately encircled by a fresh, cool breeze of the nightly air. The sky was darker, a deep blue to ebony, illuminated by the vibrant street signs and streets calmed by midnight.

“I told you not to drink so much, Jackson,” Jaebum reprimanded him, and his expression twisted into a grimace when he couldn’t understand Jackson’s slurred words. Rolling his eyes, he looked at Mark, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him. Are you fine on your own?”

Mark nodded. He drank a lot, but he felt fine--rather woozy, but fine. He could feel the drone of the alcohol still swirling in him, loosening his whole body and dispersing the suffusion of lugubrious thoughts in his mind. He didn’t feel any stronger or happier, but he felt lighter. Maybe he could sleep tonight. 

Jaebum turned his head to Junior, who was standing idly around with his hands in his pockets. “Jinyoung, you don’t mind if I bring him back to our room, do you? His roommate’s uptight about being woken up in the middle of the night, so I rather just let him sleep on our floor or something to save the trouble.” 

“As long as he doesn’t puke on my things, I don’t care.” 

“Great,” Jaebum exhaled a relieved sigh, “Well, let’s get going then. I’ll see you later, Mark. Be careful on your way home, okay?” 

“Yeah.”

“Jinyoung, mind giving me a hand?” Jaebum said, motioning to Jackson who was half passed out, but Junior wasn’t paying attention to him. He was watching Mark, cheeks tinted with an inebriated pink, yet his eyes were steady and lucidly sober. 

“You don’t live with them?” Junior asked, impassive. 

Mark flickered his eyes towards the side, watching a hand-holding couple walk past them with brisk smiles on their airy faces. “No.” He paused, swallowed, and looked back at Junior. “I live on my own. I don’t go to college.” 

He noticed that Junior tensed at the revelation, his face flashing with momentary dubiety before he abruptly turned to Jaebum. “You can go ahead without me. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“What--” 

“I’m going to stay behind a bit to catch up with Mark-hyung. You know, for old times’ sake.” Junior shrugged with a thin smile. Mark sent him a wide-eyed stare, but was ignored.

Jaebum looked between the both of them, an eyebrow raised in query. His shoulders slumped and nodded. “Okay. Be careful on your way back to campus then, Jinyoung. I’ll see you later.”

Mark watched as Jaebum adjusted Jackson’s weight on him before they stumbled into a leave, Jaebum glancing over his shoulder from time to time. They descended down the road, becoming smaller figures as they widened the distance between them, embarking through the crepuscular horizon cluttered with shop lights before they disappeared into a corner. It was suddenly quiet, save for the pitter-patter of solitary civilians and the tinkling of dinnerware from the inside of still-opened restaurants. His mind was dull and he was unable to think straightly, muddled with a spree of worriments, but he couldn’t feel it with the tipsy numbness tingling his senses. Amidst the gentle night integrated by the skyline of constellations, Mark stood there beside Junior, mouths unmoving but eyes speaking with a permeation of implicit consternation and eclipsed curiosity of their sudden, interweaving lives. 

Three years meant three hundred questions waiting to be answered, but even now, Mark stayed silent as he’d always been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how the Korean education system works for colleges, so I'm sorry if I got them wrong! I read the information on Wikipedia, so I figured in my head that Mark was 18 in high school and Jinyoung was 17, and three years later (which is in the present), Mark would be 21 and Jinyoung would be 20, as well as Jaebum and Jackson, so I assumed they would be sophomores in college. If I did get it wrong, feel free to tell me and I can edit it! 
> 
> This is a rather slow story in terms of building their relationship. It's only been two chapters so there's not a lot to see in terms of their personality yet, but I'm eager to flesh them out and uncover their secrets as the story progresses. Thank you for reading and stay tuned!
> 
> The next chapter will pick off from here, where they'll finally talk a bit. :>
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention this, but I'll try to update as frequently as possible! The next chapter will be up hopefully in a week or so, because I have a biology and math test I have to study for (which sucks) along with other school activities that'll take up my time. My apologies in advance!


	3. to reach is to let go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for 500+ views and the kudos and amazing comments! I appreciate it so much!! i hadn't anticipated so much feedback and it's so wonderful to know that all of you really enjoy my story so far. thank you!!  
> this chapter's kind of shorter, so i hope that's okay! 
> 
> things get worse before they get better, i promise :'D
> 
> i don't know if this should be a warning, but just in case, there are mentions of vomiting, but it's nothing too gross!

“It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it? Here we are once again.”

 

They were standing to the side of the hot pot house, underneath the black canopy of the building, an arms length of distance spaced between them. Mark tried to blink away the fuzziness in his vision as his eyes roamed around the streets, gnawing at his bottom lip out of nervousness. He noticed that an elderly man--maybe an septuagenarian--with a wooden cane in his hand had taken a seat on one of the benches, a street lamp glowing brightly beside it. He wondered why an old man was outside at such an hour. It wasn’t safe. 

 

“Yeah.” Mark nodded slowly. “I didn’t think you’d show up in my life again.”

 

“The feeling’s mutual.” Junior smirked, a caustic sharpness to his voice. It disappeared, though, when silence hung between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t comfortable either, until he spoke again.

 

“You never finished school,” He said it like a statement, like he didn’t need an answer when he already knew the truth but was just testing the waters. 

 

“No.” Mark said after a moment of lost concentration. He blinked rapidly, spreading his legs slightly apart to try and steady himself when he noticed that he was swaying a bit. 

 

“Why?”

 

He felt Junior’s prickling stare again. Mark wanted to tell him-- to demand him to stop staring at him with such an idiosyncratic gaze full of indecipherable judgment that sent shivers down Mark’s spine. It was unsettling and nerve wracking to be scrutinized in such a way. He felt as though Junior saw through him and the transparency of his brittle safeguard; the dimming flicker of life burning away like a candle losing its flame from a spontaneous winnow of wind; his insides rotting from the monotony of everyday life, of sleeplessness and nightmares and unpredictable vacancy. 

 

He felt as though he was laid bare before him, and hated that. 

 

Mark wanted to be invisible again, because it was easier that way. 

 

“I don’t know.” Mark muttered, focusing on the decrepit residues of leftover gum sticking to the pavement ground. “I didn’t see a purpose.” He twitched when he heard Junior’s scoff.

 

“What happened to you?” 

 

Mark looked up when he detected a flare of heat behind Junior’s tone. Junior was staring at him with his vast eyes, dark and widened in an oscillation of subdued indignation. His shoulders were tense and his lips were set in a tight, straight line. There was something unreadable in his expression. He didn’t know why he seemed so bothered by the fact, but for some reason, Mark thought that was funny.

 

“I should be asking _you_ that, Junior.” It was the alcohol that made him feel stupidly loose to the point of speaking before thinking. His words were slurred through his lazy smile, but not enough to be indistinguishable. The old man on the bench was typing away at his phone, his webbed thumbs gliding over the advanced technology in tiny jerks. 

 

“ _Don’t call me that_.” A sudden bout of anger emerged, his words trailing in a vehement hiss, a threat lingering behind his eyes when he reached over and seized Mark by the collar of his dark green jacket, wrenching him closer to get his point across. Mark barely held back a flinch from the startling, fierce contact and sudden proximity. His muscles involuntarily stiffened when he felt the violence emanate from Junior, and even though he was slightly taller than him, Junior’s abrupt display of belligerence was an astounding and towering presence. Looking at people in the eye had always been a struggle, and Junior was no exception, so Mark settled on shutting his eyes tightly. However, Junior had immediately let go the moment he sensed Mark’s flinch, recoiling as if he was the one that had been burned, the fleeting spring of viciousness in his eyes disappearing as fast as water being drained from a tap. 

 

“Don’t call me Junior.” He emphasized in a harsh quietness, his hands clenching into tight fists before he shoved them back into the pocket of his black pea coat, the stiffness of his shoulders relaxing slightly. 

 

Mark inhaled deeply, feeling a sense of recovered calmness make its way back into his body. He was slightly surprised and mostly confused. He had expected some form of unresolved anger to manifest before him, but he didn’t receive any of the reactions Mark anticipated from him. Instead, Junior had controlled himself, merely disturbed by the name Mark kept associating him with, and now he looked as troubled as a stray tomcat, mirroring Mark’s own skittishness. It was strange. This whole exchange was strange.

 

“Okay.” Mark breathed, his fingers palpating a stray thread from the sides of his black jeans. “You don’t look like a Junior anymore, anyways. I almost didn’t recognize you, but I did. You’ve changed. I thought maybe I was seeing things.” He thought about BamBam, distantly imagining how he would react if he were to know that his past tormentor had become present in his life, and had dynamically changed. Would he bear a spiteful grudge, feel an incessant grapple of terror, or feel mildly apathetic and curious? Mark didn’t know, and didn’t know if he should inform him at all. BamBam was no longer in Korea, and Mark didn’t see a reason to re-instill faraway memories back to him when he was in a much better place, pursuing his dreams in the States while making a name for himself. 

 

Mark suddenly felt heavy again.

 

In a languid manner, he glanced at Jinyoung. Mark wanted to dreadfully ask the scorching questions plaguing his mind ever since they’ve reunited at the bookstore, to desperately put his mind at peace and to ease his curiosity, but once he opened his mouth, a ticklish sensation permeated his chest to the brim and soft laughter suddenly escaped past his lips. Before he knew it, soft laughter was intensifying into a burbling inundation of breathless giggles once they became uncontrollable. He didn’t know why he was laughing. He was questioning his own sanity at this point, and knew by the puzzled silence from Junior, he was questioning Mark’s own sanity too. 

 

“Sorry, I can’t--I’m not--” Mark clutched at his stomach, feeling the stretch of his muscles turn into an expression of pain, but he still couldn’t stop laughing. He instantly wished he hadn’t consumed the alcohol that was unwinding him into a corybantic mess; into a silhouette of raw confusion and instability he wasn’t supposed to accept and expose to anyone else at all, but he liked the warm buzz of it, even if it made him feel more disconnected from the world. Everything seemed amusing to him now, the reality slowly setting into his grip of understanding. How in retrospection, he had been conjecturing the depressing possibilities of Jinyoung's future, but in fact, Mark _himself_ was the one squandering away his meaningless life and everyone else was moving forward, leaving him behind. _He_ was the only one who followed through the road of a lightless future. He was merely a vessel of boredom. He was talking to a boy whom he thought had no palpable future back then, but it was incredible how it’s the other way around now. “I’m not laughing--at you. I’m not.”

 

He was laughing at himself. 

 

He slunk down into a crouch, covering his face with his hands, laughter muffled behind them. He could feel the piercing stares from lonesome passersby and closing business owners, addressing it as a mere notation of reckless intoxication, but the only intoxication Mark could only vividly feel at the moment was his own patheticness. “I thought this was a dream. A hallucination.” _From my spells of insomnia._ “I thought you were a dream,” _You're not supposed to be here; to remind me of who left_ who _behind._ “because I didn’t think you knew how to smile like that.” _I’m the only one who’s trapped in a stalemate; stuck in the past and the static present._

 

Without any forewarning, laughter swiftly became nausea and he spun to the side when he felt bile rise up in his throat. Collapsing onto his knees and palms, he lurched forward and expelled all the contents of his dinner an hour ago out onto the ground in front of him, leaving an unsightly, sour mess. Then he was dry-heaving, sputtering and coughing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaustion suddenly welcoming him into a cold embrace. He fell back, feeling the strength leave his legs as he laid his back against the building wall. His eyes were glazing around the vicinity again: The old man was gone. The street was quiet. Some of the store signs weren’t shining anymore. He hadn’t noticed that the hot pot house was closed as well, the blinking lights no longer flashing to indicate its business. How much time had passed in the span of their laconic conversation? 

 

He felt a tug on his hood and he turned his head slightly to the side. Jinyoung was trying to grab his attention, a respective distance maintained between them when he crouched down beside him, boundaries not yet discussed to assume where the line was drawn. 

 

“I’m not a dream,” Jinyoung said lowly, adamancy present in his steady voice, “I’m not a figment of your imagination. You’re just fucking drunk. This is just as cumbersome for you as it is for me.” 

 

“I’m _fine_. I didn’t drink that much,” Mark muttered, swatting away his hand weakly. It hadn’t registered in his brain how awkward their sudden reunion was for Jinyoung too, having caught up in his own compunction. 

 

“You drank four bottles. You just have low alcohol tolerance.” Jinyoung said. “Now, all your drunken murmurings are pissing me off. Are you going to stay here and sleep beside your puke all night?”

 

“Why do you care?” Mark bit back, his eyebrows furrowing. Irritability was apparent through his tone. Back then, he had understood what Junior was made out of. He had seen the surface of his dark ambitions, what he would become in the future from his destructive and vindictive state, and how his goals reflected that of a person who merely didn’t care about merit or his own well-being, but never did he ever glimpse at his inner soul. He understood his unkind pursuit in life, not his personal acumen. Now, Junior was Jinyoung, and that was even more confusing to fully comprehend, especially with alcohol in his system. He didn’t understand why Jinyoung wasn’t retaliating against him from his clear-cut disloyalty. “You’re not supposed to care. You’re not supposed to stay here with me, talking to me so casually when your gang could be hiding somewhere in the shadows ready to jump me, because last time I checked, you didn’t give a damn when you--” He abruptly stopped as he felt phantom hands ghost around his body, apparitions of fists dig deep into his ribs. He suddenly felt sick again, faintly reliving the event.

 

“Shut up, you _idiot_ ,” Jinyoung gave him a vexed shove, not hard enough to send him toppling over but enough to startle him, “don’t forget that _you_ were the one who dismantled my trust. _You_ were the traitor. Don’t give me all your melodramatic bullshit when _you_ are the one with a liability here. Even after three years, you still think you’re the only one who got hurt?”

 

“I just didn’t believe in your logic that violence equated to power, and I still don’t,” Mark weakly asserted, “and if you had continued to terrorize him--I didn’t--something bad would have--” 

 

_Even after three years, you still think you’re the only one who got hurt?_

 

“Wait--what?” Stupefied, Mark turned his head and body rapidly to look at Jinyoung when his sluggish mind registered his heated words, but the fast movement caused another wave of nausea to inundate his senses, and he reflexively brought a hand up to cover his mouth as he fought it back. His dry mouth was stale, a bitter aftertaste sitting in the space of his palate, and he felt sleepy, which was awfully relieving. He wanted to ask what Jinyoung meant by that, to elaborate further, but didn’t get the chance to. 

 

“What made him so special, then? Why help him when you could have helped any of the other guys we’ve all targeted? You were just as involved in your supposition of terrorization as the rest of us.” 

 

It was difficult for Mark to define how he perceived BamBam at that time. It wasn’t out pity or out of pure goodness of his soul when he helped the younger boy out, but he couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason of his actions. He saw something in the younger boy that Mark saw in his own self, but it wasn’t so that he could play the role of a savior. Mark knew that BamBam wouldn’t be able to survive through the torment, especially when he didn’t join a gang to protect himself, so maybe that was why Mark impulsively went against his own comrades. Maybe it was because he was tired of fighting, of being passive--of everything. There were too many _maybes_ and not enough solidity. 

 

When Mark was too lost in his thoughts, unable to articulate a clear answer, Jinyoung stood up briskly, “You haven’t really changed, huh? Still a hypocrite with a mouth always stitched closed. ” 

 

“What do you mean by--” Mark lifted an arm to blindly reach for Jinyoung, to pull him back down and ask for an explanation, but all he could grasp was nothing but air. He blinked to clear his vision, to find Jinyoung properly, but instead, he saw his dark silhouette, outlined by the coruscating illumination of the moon that floated in the dark sky from behind. He couldn’t finish his sentence, his voice trailing off into the dispassionate night.

 

“We’re done talking. It's late. You said you’re fine, so that means you can still manage to go home on your own. It’s not like we have much to say to each other anyways, right?” His hands were trembling, clenching and unclenching again. It seemed as though he was holding back a burst of anger, the urge to revert back to the instincts of aggression. His eyes were quiet and cold, sharp and penetrating as a glinting switchblade. 

 

Words were itching to be spoken through the curl of his tongue, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t utter a single word. There was a sinking feeling in his chest as he watched the bitter quirk of Jinyoung’s lips and the shake of his head in what seemed to be disappointment and virulence. Mark saw then, that Jinyoung was still a boy who walked around carrying a chip on his shoulder, a boy who has grown to expect the expected; grown to expect the fact that Mark will probably never talk about his thoughts, too noncommittal and cowardly to clarify and justify himself. 

“We’re disbanded, by the way." Jinyoung mumbled. "They’re not here, and they don’t know that I’m here, so stop being paranoid. I’m not looking for revenge, but that doesn’t mean I'll trust you again.” Jinyoung didn’t look at him as he began to walk away in a slow, tense yet sober gait, his shoulders hunched up with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. “Have a good night, Mark-hyung, and try not to step in your own vomit.”

 

Mark was an able-bodied person that _could_ walk home. He wasn’t intoxicated to the core, and logic was still a solid concept in his mind, but he felt gravely dehydrated after laughing into a fit that led to regurgitation. He felt exhausted, the persistence of sleep kneading him through his heavy-lidded eyes that lacked any notion of rest, and watched as Jinyoung’s figure grew smaller and smaller as he traveled further and further away, glowing underneath the dim lamp posts, without looking back. Mark felt something heavy settle in his chest. How small he felt at that moment; just an insignificant speck of dust in comparison to the width of the world, the familiar darkness engulfing every part of his being into a blank slate of nothing, like the center of a burned out star collapsing in upon itself.

 

He closed his leaden eyes, breathing in the intangible silence that only seemed to mock how lonely he felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know why the end note from the first chapter keeps appearing in the other chapters? it's so annoying, so i'm sorry you guys have to see that repeatedly!  
> i'm gonna be super busy next month, which is a bummer, but i'll update as much as I can!  
> happy halloween everyone and stay safe!!


	4. leap of faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a wonderful and safe Halloween! Here's the next chapter!  
> t/w: very slight imagery of suicide, but it's veeeeery very vague!

Mark had woken up to the cacophonous combustion of his phone ringing at every interval of a minute and partially due to the restaurant owner finding him passed out in front of his hot pot house at 6AM in the morning (“Wake up, son, no loitering around my property--is that your puke over there?”). The glaring sun was peeking behind the buildings, icily warm and stinging to his awareness. His whole body was cold to the point of tingling numbness, and the left side of his cheek was particularly frigid and numb from spending the entire night pressing it against the gritty, chilly ground. He didn’t recall falling asleep, but he was drunk and sleepy and must have blacked out completely when he had shut his eyes, because the next thing he knew, the sun was already rising and a toe was gently being pressed against his rib cage with his shrill, aggravating ringtone rippling through the serene atmosphere. He was grateful the owner hadn’t given him any trouble after apologizing and bowing profusely to him. 

 

Now, Mark was seated on a bench at a nearby park he found after stumbling down the road and taking a random route, clutching a half-filled water bottle the restaurant owner had kindly gifted him before shooing him away. The headache wasn’t anything terrible--he’s had worse, in all honesty. The only thing that bothered him the most was how horrible his breath tasted. Not even the refreshing thrill of water could wash away the overnight aftertaste of beer and vomit lingering acerbically in his palate.

 

The park was mostly empty, save for a few joggers and elderly people doing a lackadaisical routine of martial arts. The trees were vibrant and bright, dry foliage trailing down the sidewalk and the grassy areas. He let out a shaky breath from the morning gelidity, but he liked the cold, Autumn air that nipped at his pale skin. It sharpened his senses and made him feel more alert and sober, and he found some peace in the fact that he actually slept without any nightmares, even if he still felt like shit. 

 

Finally giving into the last notification of his phone, he took it out of his pocket and checked the messages he received profusely. He let out a sigh, and wondered why Jackson was bombarding him with messages at such an ungodly time. He didn’t even have the ability to wake up early, let alone 6AM. 

 

Jackson (Today, 6:15AM): _u home?_  
_dude answr me n dont ignore me_  
_u didnt even drink that much man. i’m diyng hr my head is poundin. i threw up lke 6x and feel like shit and i have class in four hrs. fml_

 

(6:16AM): _cmon answr me. not funny_  
_omfg pls tell me u werent kidnapped jfc_

 

(6:18AM): _give me any sign ur still alive. pls. jinyoung won’t stop pasive agresively bothering me to see if u made it home ok. but atleast he knos not to bother jb. but who the hell wakes up this early to bother a guy abt an0ther guy_  
_did u guys fight or osmethingi swr if he wont stop leaving me alone ill knock the smartass outta him. its so fckin early and i dnt even get up at this itme_  
_dude r u okay????????_

 

Mark frowned, slightly befuddled by the fact that Jinyoung wanted to know of his wellbeing, especially how things had ended between them yesterday night. It wasn’t like they outright fought or anything, which was surprising considering the things that had happened between them back then, but there was a suffocating tension ever-still present that left the both of them unsettled at how unresolved and frustrating things were. Reliving their interaction evoked a feeling of guilt because Mark couldn’t help but think that this was particularly his fault. This wasn’t the first time his passivity and lack of voice caused a irrecoverable strain, but he frankly also didn’t appreciate how Jinyoung wouldn’t give him a chance to think, always giving him vague remarks that weren’t self-explanatory. 

 

(6:20AM): _maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaark_  
_im srsly gonna call the cops if u dont answer_

 

Letting out an annoyed huff, Mark tapped out a succinct reply, albeit slowly because of his cold and stiff fingers. 

 

Mark (Today, 6:22AM): _Jackson, shut up._

 

His reply was absurdly immediate.

 

Jackson: _HALLELUJAH UR ALIVE_

 

Mark: _I’m okay, but I didn’t go home. I fell asleep outside the restaurant._

 

Mark jumped when the text messaging window closed and was replaced by a call from Jackson. Rolling his eyes, Mark let it ring for a few times before he finally answered. He didn’t even get the chance to say hello and was greeted by Jackson’s vociferous exclaim. For someone who had a terrible hangover, he sure was able to shout like an excitable six-year old.

 

“You spent the night _outside of the hot pot house_ ?! Like, on the _ground_ and shit?!”

 

Mark lifted the phone away from his ear, wincing. It merely made his headache worse, and he didn’t need that now. “Jackson, stop yelling.” 

 

“Why didn’t you go home last night? Wait, did Jinyoung--”

 

“No.” Mark cut him off right away. “I told him I could go home on my own. He left before I passed out. It’s not his fault. I was just really sleepy and I ended up spending the night outside.” It was true for the most part, and it wasn’t like he was holding any grudges against it--against anything, in general.

 

“What the hell, man? I’m never letting you drink that much again.” Jackson sounded an uncanny mixture of indignation and worry. “Where are you now? Are you okay?” 

 

“Yeah.” Mark croaked, and cleared his throat before answering firmly. “I’m fine. I’m just sitting at a park to clear my head, and then I’ll head back home. I don’t have work until eleven o’clock.”

 

“Oh,” Jackson exhaled a sigh of relief, “That’s good to hear. And here I thought that _I_ was the one with the low alcohol tolerance. It’s a good thing you were in a good neighborhood. You can’t be that careless, you know? If you needed any help, you could have called one of us.”

 

“Jackson, you were drunk out of your mind. I’m surprised you’re still so eloquent at this time of the morning when you must be having the world’s most devastating hangover.”

 

“Excuse me, first of all, I’m _always_ eloquent, and secondly, Jaebum-hyung wasn’t.” Jackson asserted. “Kind of. But either way, I stand by it. If you needed any help, you could have just called us. It doesn’t matter if we’re fucking plastered--nobody is leaving the other to sleep out in the damn cold.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.” Mark muttered, his eyes lowering to the ground. He wondered why Jackson was so concerned, but it made Mark feel a little better to know that someone cared about him, even if he was just his co-worker. “But I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Tell… uh, Jinyoung that I’m okay.”

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jackson inquired skeptically, “You were acting kind of weird yesterday. Did something happen?” 

 

Mark watched as a dark-haired spinster jogged to the drinking fountain of the park to refill her plastic water bottle. She bent down to tie her lime shoelaces after that. “No. Nothing happened. I’m okay, don’t worry about me.”

 

“I don’t know why I don’t believe you,” Jackson sounded dubious, but then he made an unpleasant noise from the back of his throat, “oh shit.”

 

“Jackson?”

 

“I gotta go!” Mark could hear the sound of someone crashing and Jackson yelling ‘get out of the way, I have to use the toilet’ in the background before speaking to Mark again. “I’ll call you later!”

 

Mark looked at his cell phone in confusion and then in understanding before he closed it and shoved it back into his pocket. He took another swig of water and glanced around the calm vicinity of the park again, basking in the tranquil ambiance. For Mark, he was the type of person to never deem silences as awkward. Uncomfortable, maybe, but awkward? There were so many varying degrees of silences: the peaceful, calm ones where both parties were mutually at ease with each other, not obligated to break it with futile small talk; the stiff silences with perfunctory tension; the warm silences, all familiar and incredibly carefree; the solitary silences that let you breathe and become your own person again--those were little telltale signs of people’s personalities, just a little opening to peek at what kind of character they possess if you knew what and where to analyze. But for him, he never thought silences were awkward, because he never saw the reason why people felt compelled to break it when it was a valuable, precious crux of life. 

 

Mark has grown accustomed to silence and to embodying it, but he’s also come to realize a long time ago that silence was very much a lonely, deadly thing as well, and that it could do more harm than good. Maybe that’s why people gave up on him so fast, seeing him as a waste of time to get to know because of his quiet disposition. Maybe that’s why Jinyoung had been so frustrated, and probably will always be, because Mark never changed--never learned how to be non-silent when he needed to be. 

 

He couldn’t help but exhale a big sigh, wondering when his heart became so, so heavy. Perhaps his heart had always been heavy and chipped at the edges, but because he became so desensitized to it, it’s become a natural, regular thing for him to always feel lousy. 

 

As the clouds slowly drifted across the panorama, his focus shifted onto the thought of his older brother and how he would take obstacles in life smoothly in stride. Mark undoubtedly knew that he wouldn't be happy with him, watching him go through the motions of life so blandly and with reserve. Mark could imagine his older brother smiling down at him above from the pale, silver sky tinted in a light blue, his eyes shining with insurmountable mirth, amicably reminding him that he should live life to the fullest no matter what. Mark could hear his words once spoken to him on a summer, starry night, nostalgia of Los Angeles’ humidity briefly embracing him, his brother’s fond voice ringing through his ears, “ _Life is too short to be anything but happy, Mark. Be the first to reach out and connect with the people who are willing to connect with you. Don’t let yourself be blinded by the dark things around you._ ” 

 

His brother was a true, golden optimist, the cherished and picture-perfect son of their household, never a failure nor a born mistake like Mark. However, it was only a matter of time before the portrait of his glowing brother in his head warped into something sinister-- into a porcelain tub filled to the brim with crimson, watery red that dripped to the tiled floor, the last image embedded deeply into his brain of his brother Mark could only vividly remember ever since--

 

The water bottle dropped from his grip as he shoved his head down in between his knees, and he clutched at his chest, his breathing turning into desperate gasps for air as he choked on nothing. He felt as though he was drowning, hands dragging him deeper into the dark depths of the water, his body inaugurating into a state of trembling. 

 

“Fuck,” Mark gasped as he squeezed his eyes shut, “you’re not there anymore.” 

 

He repeated it frantically like a pious mantra, like his life depended on it. He hated how the onslaught of unwanted images appeared in his head without any forewarning, sending him askew and into a plight of inclement trepidation and panic. He couldn’t freak out in public--not right now. He needed to forget, but he's been having a hard time forgetting, lately. 

 

He let out a shaky, quivering breath, swallowing down the nausea. He inhaled as deeply as he could, trying to calm himself down by occupying his mind with other thoughts, other thoughts, other thoughts. Something--anything to wash away the crimson-streaked memory burned in the back of his vision. He thought about his childhood, tethered in a light of innocence and passion for futuristic dreams with no care in the world; about his father’s warm hands raking through his hair, telling him that he was proud of him; about miserable authors, like Sylvia Plath, who produced the most splendid writings that stemmed from their sorrow and cynicism for the world to view; and about his favourite poem by Robert Frost that inevitably led to him thinking about Jinyoung and how he held that book so gingerly in his hands, and his all-consuming stare that held all the inscrutable intricacies of the world. 

 

Suddenly, he remembered Jinyoung smiling yesterday in the restaurant, loose from the alcohol but genuine contentment apparent in his soft expression, and how even though Mark had felt inexplicably cold at that moment, seeing him smile a smile he’s never witnessed before was able to ignite a flicker of warmth in his chest, causing a whirlwind to volley in his stomach. Jinyoung was no longer a tempestuous storm that seeked redemption through the means of brutality, but now, he was an enigma wrapped in a veil of mystery. He was a person who had immediately let go of Mark yesterday night and stepped away when he sensed his flinch. 

 

The reemerged confusion and curiosity of their situation was enough to distract him until he learned how to breathe again, like a newborn taking their first breath of air. It felt like hours when he finally regained the regularity of his breathing, but when he tentatively checked the time, ten minutes had only passed. There was still that numb residue of distraught lingering around his body, but he felt less anxious now. Not better, but not worse either. His chest hurt, though, and his stomach was doing crazy flips. He picked up the water bottle he had dropped, and stood up. His legs felt a bit like jelly, but he could manage. It was truly bizarre and slightly embarrassing how the thought of Jinyoung and his obscurity was enough to block out the full manifestation of his brother’s memory, but it was all that he needed at the moment. Feelings were always a confusing and hard concept for him to grapple and make sense of. Explaining it was out of his range of ability, that’s why it was better to keep them all up in his head, even if it was sometimes too hard to bear, and so he refrained himself from mulling over the source of his transient alleviation.

 

“You’re not there anymore.” Mark whispered to himself, because he needed the reassurement, to remind his whole body and mind that it was true and that memories were no longer existing in reality. “You’re not there anymore.”

 

Underneath the pearly sky that was slowly brightening into a warm hue, he let out a deep, quivering breath as he began to head home with trembling hands and a heart that weighed more than he remembered.

 

\---------

 

It’s been a week and two days ever since he’s seen Jinyoung. 

 

Mark presumed that despite having mutual friends, they would continue to avoid each other because of their last conversation. He should have felt an extraordinary amount of relief from that likely assumption, but for some reason, he didn’t, and didn’t know the reason why. Instead, there was an uneasiness that churned in the pit of his stomach, a sense of disquietude overcoming him. He’s been in a state of discomfiture ever since that night, mulling over their rickety and unplanned interaction, and from the unwanted return of the memory of his brother frequently urging its way back into his flightless dreams, he hasn’t been sleeping properly at all. Dark circles have been darkening, close to imitating blossoms of bruises underneath his eyes. 

 

_Kyung-sook Shin. Ch’oe Yun. Park Wan Suh. Vikram Seth. Ben Okri._

 

He settled each book into their respective homes before he sneaked a glance towards Jackson who has been giving Mark the stink eye, an annoyed pout on his face, while he was aggressively sweeping the carpeted areas. He’s been perpetually rejecting Jackson’s pleads to hang out with them, too cowardly to face the possibility of Jinyoung being there too. Even Jaebum has been vaguely encouraging him through texts, which was rare since they only ever talked in person, but they didn’t seem to give up. Mark could tell they were getting fed up, and it was only a matter of time before they would finally leave him alone, so he was surprised that they were still so obstinate in their pursuit. He didn’t hear the quiet footsteps approaching him as he returned to his work, shaking his head at Jackson’s childish antics.

 

_Max Weber. Neil Gaiman. F. Scott Fitzgerald. J.K. Rowling. Malcolm--_

 

“Can I take that?”

 

The voice startled him into dropping the book. Mark looked up in alarm before he watched Jinyoung bend down to reach for it, picking it up before wiping the specks of dust off. He looked weary, Mark realized, as he noticed the dark circles underneath his overcast eyes that slowly met his underneath the wispy curls of his eyelashes. Although he appeared to be visibly tired, his steady gaze still held its bleak intensity, darkly vast as the galaxy inhabiting the exosphere of earth. 

 

Mark broke their eye contact and he glanced at the book in Jinyoung’s hands: _The Tipping Point_ by Malcolm Gladwell. 

 

“It’s for my sociology class. I wasn’t kidding when this place has basically everything.” It was as though Jinyoung had answered the questions in his head. His voice was cold and monotonous, “Can I pay for it now? Nobody’s at the counter.” 

 

“Uh... Yeah.” Mark muttered, voice meek. He quickly finished shelving the remaining books in his arms before he helped Jinyoung at the counter, quickly scanning the barcode of the book. As he watched Jinyoung fish for his wallet, Mark couldn’t help but wonder if he was troubled as well, taking in his jaded appearance. Maybe it was just from college in general and the stress it ensued, and not from their rocky exchange that night. It was clear that Mark was insignificant in his world--he knew it the moment that his incompetence was established in comparison to Jinyoung, but perhaps he just wanted the frustration to end as well but just didn’t know how to reach for it. Both of them didn’t know how. Then he remembered how Jinyoung had asked Jackson to ask Mark if he had made it home safely, and if he was okay, and it made Jinyoung's character all the more confusing to understand. He wanted to know why he was concerned when he seemed to be set on being bitter about what happened, but Mark didn't know if he should bring it up or not.

 

His mind drifted away to Mikage Sakurai, the protagonist of _Kitchen_ , who took a leap of faith in investing her trust to a pair of strangers that slowly made their way into her heart, finding a home in the uncanny mother and son that embraced her with acceptance and warmth, all because she reached out to them. He thought about how Jeannette Walls from _The Glass Castle_ managed to make a name for herself from the shambles of her aberrant household and vagabond family because of her expansive longitude of inner drive and perseverance. He thought about Chris from _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time_ , and his integrity as he walked firmly to his desired destination, overcoming obstacles spawned from society because of his disorder. He thought about all these protagonists he read from printed papers, taking leap of faiths in order to kickstart their life in the right way, even if it may be ephemeral.

 

He wondered if he, a mistake and a nobody, was capable of such a phenomenon.

 

With Jinyoung packing the book away into his bag, muttering the quick and cursory ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ as the customer and nothing less, Mark watched as he turned his back and headed towards the exit. Apprehensive thoughts swarmed his brain, pushing him to do something, say _anything_ before he’d lose his chance. Even the shrill chime of the bell couldn’t jerk him into motion, and his eyes chased Jinyoung’s figure outside of the transparent windows before he disappeared from his sight. 

 

 _"Even after three years, you still think you’re the only one who got hurt?"_

 

And even after three years, nothing’s changed.

 

They were still static, too cowardly to make the first move and to accept the closure they needed to resolve their unresolved issue. Personality wise, they’ve changed, but they haven’t grown out of the inclination to cower behind a mask of self-destruction. He’s tired of carrying an extra burden that gnaws at his conscience. Mark has watched all these strangers fertilize the ground he’s walked on from the moment his existence became inconsequential, and he’s grown tired of seeing the wilting of nature every time he’s the one who sets foot on it. 

 

He didn’t want a repeat of his brother.

 

“Mark, what the-- _hey_ ! What do you think you’re--” 

 

His legs were pumping in adrenaline as he rushed outside the bookstore, Jackson’s voice muffled behind the closed door as he sprinted down the street in search for Jinyoung amidst the morning assembly of on goers. The drone of speeding cars and lackluster hums of civilian chatter flooded his ears as wind gushed past his face, trying to politely make his way around passersby. 

 

He instantly spotted the mop of raven hair and the familiar outline of the slender frame, the black clothes blending well with citizens alike but to Mark, he stood out the most among the blurry-faced strangers. He briefly considered on turning his back to walk back to the bookstore, back to work he deserted out of impulsivity and from his mind taking control over his body that propelled him to suddenly move without self-awareness, but no, he kept running until he neared his proximity. 

 

“Ju--” 

 

 _"Don’t call me that."_

 

“Jinyoung,” The name was so foreign to the roll of his tongue, he hadn’t realized that he’s never said his real name before until now. Jinyoung didn’t hear him, though, and kept on widening the space between them.

 

 _Is it worth it?_

 

He was being impulsive. Impulsive, impulsive, impulsive, but it didn’t stop him. His heart was thudding heavily against his chest, his guts churning at every possible negative scenario of the outcome, but Mark mustered as much strength as he could to project his voice to him, “Jinyoung!”

 

Jinyoung jerked to a halt. They stood in the middle of the sidewalk a few feet away from each other, miffed people swerving around them at their sudden cessation in walking. Mark was panting lightly as his heart palpitated non-stop, and once Jinyoung turned around at the source of his name, they stood there for a solid juncture of a turning point in both of their intertwined lives, staring at each other. Jinyoung looked genuinely baffled, as if he hadn’t expect Mark to chase after him at all. It was a mutual feeling, because Mark hadn’t expected himself to do so as well. 

 

 _It’s too late to back down now._

 

“You,” Jinyoung said sotto voce as he shuffled sheepishly to the side when someone bumped into his shoulder. His brows were furrowed in consternation, his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his black coat. "What are you doing?" His voice lacked any bite, only tired and slightly curious.

 

He didn’t know the answer himself, with his thoughts and logical processes a sporadic mess that buzzed about spontaneously in his brain. 

 

Mark thought about those protagonists, and the leap of faiths they took when they stood at the crossroads, deciding which path they would take, and if it was worth it in the end. 

 

“I think,” He looked at him directly in the eye, faltering but determined. His voice was reticently solemn, and as he took a deep breath, he unconsciously let his gaze soften and flicker to the side when he couldn’t keep the eye contact, “we need to talk.”

 

Maybe it was possible for Mark to take his own leap of faith with the chance presented in front of him, even if he couldn’t help but think he was only setting himself up for more hurt, but if he was able to do something right for once in his drab, aimless life and attempt to mend things, then it would be worth it.

 

And at least he tried to reach out to him, even when he wasn't able to do it to his own brother. 

 

Jinyoung peered at him with an expression of argus-eyed alertness that wasn’t apparent on his face before. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and as their surroundings turned into a cacophonous backdrop of nothing but muffled sounds, a gentle light slowly encircled the dark irises of his eyes and the strain in his features finally softened. They were both quiet, silence hanging between them with fleeting eye contact and fidgeting of stances, until Jinyoung finally opened his mouth and said in a light, solid voice,

 

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, things are just starting to reveal themselves! I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! I frankly had a bit of trouble trying to finish it, so I hope it's okay. Have a nice day everyone, and thank you once again for reading!


	5. the night's march

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this was a hard chapter to finish, but I think it's okay? Hopefully! ;;  
> Also, my sincerest apologies to those who live in the U.S. at the horrible outcome of the election. I hope this chapter will take your mind off of things, even if for just a little bit. 
> 
> The progress is pretty slow, but I'm a sucker for slow build.

When Mark was eight-years old, his brother told him that when loved ones passed away, their souls would separate from their bodies and be reborn as stars after they pass through a realm of transformation, their spirits taking up the paradigm that’d connect incandescent bodies in an arranged tandem to form a constellation. His brother said that those loved ones who’d been reborn as stars would watch over them from the sky--tiny and twinkling dots, but full of heavenly life and an unbreakable loyalty that’d never leave your side, and that you can find a true solidarity in those unreachable celestial bodies if you were to be wrapped up in a dark embrace of loneliness.

 

So, as he stood outside of the bookstore after hours, waiting unabatingly, his eyes drifted upwards towards the night sky that were thick with shadowy clouds, but thin enough to let the miniscule light of stars seep through. He wondered if that little astral dot right there, in the center that barely grazed the soft edge of the crescent moon, was his brother, watching over him with a delicate light of poignancy, witnessing how his life has been in constant decline. Was he filled with absolute disappointment to see how his younger brother has carried out the prophecy of everybody’s words, that he turned out to truly, deplorably be nothing?

 

He wondered if his brother hated him, too.

 

The porcelain tub brimming with watery red arose in his mind again.

 

“You’re thinking too much.” 

 

Mark flinched from the calm voice that knocked him out of the reverie he found himself spiralling in, and he turned to look at Jinyoung. He hadn’t noticed that he had arrived, too lost in the sky’s melancholy to acknowledge his surroundings. His face was burrowed in the black scarf he bundled himself in, protecting himself from the chilly evening air, his book bag hanging off one shoulder. Mark involuntarily glanced down at his own clothes made out of light material, not strong enough to block the streams of Autumn zephyrs. 

 

“How do you know?” Mark asked absentmindedly, his eyes wandering off to the side. The street lights were on, the glassy windows of homes lit up in a warm, yellow luminosity, little shops closed but bigger stores still open in mid evening. 

 

Jinyoung tilted his head slightly, his eyes perceptive and shrewd, as if he was taking apart the invisible wall Mark fabricated and was putting the jagged pieces of his quiddity back together, like a uncanny shaped puzzle. 

 

“It’s in your face,” Jinyoung said, “and in your eyes. Always in your eyes.” 

 

Mark snapped his head to him in mild surprise, but Jinyoung was already turning around to leave, silently beckoning him to follow, so he did, after he glanced behind his shoulder. He trailed after Jinyoung, walking slightly behind him, tentative in his steps as shadow and light ricocheted off of them from the lamp posts. A silence suspended between them: it was a placid one, solitary yet unconfined that led to a strange nuance of ease (that, ironically, also made him feel uneasy at the amenity) to settle in the air around them. The heaviness seemed to have dispersed, replacing it with a trill of inexplicable solace, and it was peculiar--an oddity, to find such strange comfort in the stillness with a boy he had hurt and who had hurt him. Perhaps it was true, after all, that he was a hypocrite with a mouth full of glue. 

 

Mark didn’t know where they were going as they walked down the road. People were still out, bustling with a calm eagerness betwixt the glowing signs of businesses. Flashing lights of cars turned and tumbled, down the corner and around the cul-de-sacs. It seemed as though they were trekking to an indefinite destination, an aimless journey to sustain each other’s company, surreptitiously probing around the perimeters of where to begin the discourse of buried questions and answers that were slowly resurfacing. 

 

It had been a one-sided discussion about when to meet up, subsequent of Jinyoung’s agreement. He had promptly pointed at the direction where had Mark ran from. (“But not right now. What time are you off work?” “Uh, closing time, so at six, but--” “Then we’ll meet at six.”) Now, there they were, with Mark unprepared and a mind suddenly a blank slate, lost at what to say now that he was in Jinyoung’s presence. His mind was always swarming with lugubrious ruminations, footprints of poisonous words clinging to him like an irresistible artifact, leaving traces of shattered dreams for him to pick up and throw away again, so why was his mind blank now, when he was the one who initiated this impulsive pursuit? He didn’t know how to address what needed to be addressed and didn’t know how to speak what needed to be spoken. 

 

“You know,” Jinyoung finally spoke up after wallowing in the quietude of their propinquity, his voice saturated with light, frolic sarcasm, “when you said that we needed to talk, I didn’t think you meant by telepathy. Thought transference isn’t a universal and viable feat people can simply achieve.” He gave him a sharp glance, “What _is_ there to talk about, anyways?”

 

“There’s a lot to talk about.” Mark hesitated on elaborating. “Are we going to pretend nothing happened?” 

 

“No,” Jinyoung said, “but it didn’t look like we had much to say the last time we talked.”

 

Mark couldn’t help but let the heat escape in his words at his cold flippancy, “Maybe it was because that I was drunk and felt like shit from puking my guts out while trying to process-- _everything_. So, if you couldn’t be patient for one more minute trying to let me think, then I’m sorry.” 

 

“Then what should we talk about, huh? About how my future was supposed to be me, dead in a ditch somewhere?” Jinyoung bitterly smirked.

 

“No,” Mark said, his eyes catching one of the neon shop signs that flickered spontaneously, his voice softened into a whisper as words with unexpected honesty spilled from his lips, “but that was about to be mine.” 

 

Mark balked when he realized what he had uttered. He hadn’t meant to say that, but dire words with unreluctant reluctance had already materialized at the tip of his tongue, impellent at divulging. He hesitantly turned to look at Jinyoung’s expression when he turned quiet: his lips were pressed down thinly, his eyebrows furrowed deeply enough that Mark suddenly had the urge to reach over and smooth out the wrinkles formed in the space between them. His eyes were fixed ahead in solemnity, the silence darkened just a bit from the change in atmosphere, and Mark mentally grasped at what he could say--to _do_ \--to diffuse the imminent situation in criticality. How should he approach such fragility of a topic that was tipping over to the brink of invalidation? To tackle what needed to be tackled without the imminent fear of calamity to befall them? 

 

And, because Mark was inept in the fields of social competency, his brain conjured one of the most, insipid ideas ever.

 

“Truth or dare,” Mark blurted mindlessly, and realizing once again the haphazard spontaneity of his words, all he could do was discharge a string of expletives in his mind at how foolish that was. He shrunk in his posture when he felt Jinyoung’s deep-rooted stare fixated on him, judging every fibre of his being and his offbeat rationality. 

 

“Really,” Jinyoung deadpanned, “we’re going to play a verbal party game made eminently for teenagers and adolescents, _now_.” 

 

Mark opened his mouth to apologize, but lurched to stop when Jinyoung scrolled off their path and headed towards the crosswalk instead. Mark followed after him as they crossed the street, silently questioning where they were going now, since he didn’t seem to have a final destination in mind before. 

 

“I’m getting ice cream.” Jinyoung simply answered his thoughts without looking back, and Mark couldn’t help but wonder if he had said his thoughts out loud by accident. 

 

“At night?” Mark couldn’t stop himself from asking, glancing around their vicinity as they neared a small sweets shop that was surprisingly still open for business. It was seated between two clothing stores that were closed, the shop’s white, cursive name imprinted on the teal canopy with decorative filigrees branching outwards in a dainty fashion. The glass pane windows were polished and satiny, and he could see the interior from the vitreosity of the windows, the glass slightly imbued with gilded light trickling from the inside. “It’s cold.”

 

“Unless you want to start actually _talking_ , I’m going to satiate my sweet tooth in the meantime.” Jinyoung shrugged, glancing at him for a brief second with momentary presentiment before he pulled open the door and entered, with Mark trailing behind with fleeting hesitation. He was immediately welcomed by the warmth of the small shop that relieved his skin from the sharp coolness of the evening outside, and the first thing he noticed was the murals painted upon the pastel walls--spring, he inferred, with the detailed trees in a plush abundance of vividly green leaves, tints of yellows and oranges, the source of light hidden but crystalline with the rays beaming across the painted groves from the upper corner of the wall, variegated flowers blooming in an abstract row along the baseboard. 

 

“Hey. Don’t stand in front of the entrance.”

 

He turned to look at Jinyoung who kept staring at him-- _staring_ with those eyes that reminded him of dark, agate gemstones, astutely sharp with ripples of shrewd niceties, concatenated with hidden vicissitudes beneath the stoicism of a frigid scholar. The golden lights of the shop, however, made him seem a little less cold. Made him softer, maybe, with the effulgence hitting him in angles that made his features glow a bit, like chatoyant jewels coruscating in spontaneous corrugations. Mark was unconscious of the fact that he was staring back too, until he broke himself out of the spell when he instantly looked behind him and moved away from the door sheepishly, realizing that the employees were watching him with vague amusement. 

 

“You want anything?” Jinyoung pointed at the transparent display case that held tubs of different flavoured ice creams in vibrant colours. There were other displays as well, with baked goods and saccharine sweets, eliciting a mixed aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, and pumpkin spice. Mark felt as though he couldn’t breathe from the sickly, cloying scents--not that he didn’t like it--but it was too overwhelming.

 

Mark shook his head. 

 

“That’s boring.” Jinyoung muttered, although he sounded obscurely jocose about it. As he stepped up to take his order, Mark took the time to continue surveying the place. It evoked a sense of cognizance, nostalgia even, from the familiarity of the artistic, aesthetically pleasing berth, and reminded him of a similar place back in Los Angeles. He closed his eyes---he couldn’t remember the name of it, but he went there frequently in the summer because his father would always take him there and treat him to two, delectable scoops of maple walnut ice cream. His teeth would ache from the cloying sweetness, but he had been genuinely happy in his father’s company. He recalled the scorching sunlight beaming through the clear windows, burnishing the rotund tables and at their tanned complexions, carefree laughter echoing against the walls and the cool air of the AC blowing away their beads of perspiration.

 

He held his breath to try and suffocate the feelings before they could suffocate him instead, as a pang of melancholy pierced at his chest and fluttered down into the cavity of his stomach, brimming with sudden lament and longing from the unforeseen manifestation of that childhood memory he hadn’t planned on restoring. It gave him mixed emotions at the reemerging sight of his father, at the warmth of him, when the last time he saw him, he was being buried six feet deep into the marshy ground. 

 

You don’t need water to feel like you’re drowning.

 

He felt a harsh tug at his hood and he inhaled a sharp intake of breath, fluttering his eyes open wide, a knot formed in his throat that restricted his ability to vocalize his _I’m fine._

 

“Hey.” Jinyoung pulled at his hood lightly now while he held his ice cream in a disposable bowl in his free hand(that was fast, Mark thought distantly), his lowered voice solid and perspicacious that was enough to ground Mark, “Stop that.”

 

It was as simple as that as Jinyoung let go of his hood only to take hold of the hem of his sleeve, tugging him out of the shop to escape the lingering stares of the employees who had been eyeing them curiously. Once they exited, Jinyoung immediately let go of him, eyeing him with what seemed to be a distant look of understanding, before he turned and headed towards the direction they came from, the sibilating streets filled with the lively hums of night chatter. Civilians passed by him like ghosts, his eyes trained on the back of Jinyoung’s head, his heart easing from the flight of the memory but clenching in an ineffable hiraeth. He expected incessant questions and exaggeration expressions of spurious worry, but what he received was a fragile silence that didn’t pressure him to explain, and it was enough to compartmentalize his far-flung memories away from the occupancy of his current mind. He felt his heartbeat quell from the initial flurry of perturbation, and his breath slow down. They walked by little huddles of tattooed men hanging out of sleazing-looking bars that seemed out of place in such a burbling, animated area, and Mark perpetually kept his head down to avoid any eye contact, but Jinyoung kept his head held up high without the slightest budge of hesitancy as he indulged himself in his frozen dessert. It was only when the streets quieted down and most of the crowd had dispersed once the full night had transpired, did Jinyoung finally speak up.

 

“Truth.”

 

Mark stumbled over his own two feet from the sudden shock, looking at him with widened eyes. “What?”

 

Jinyoung scowled at him, although he looked more wary than annoyed, and he began to slow his pace down so they were walking side by side instead, “I said truth.” 

 

“Oh.” Mark breathed, his eyes travelling down towards the ground as they trailed aimlessly around the commerce precinct they found themselves in. He didn’t know where to start and didn’t know if his questions could be answered when he had no idea where the boundaries were drawn and where the perimeters could be offensive and too personal. His mind travelled back to the other night where they were both drunk, heightened enough to the point of loose tongues and emotions, but now they were sober, borderline evasive and incapable of thawing the frigidity of their hearts, keen on keeping up walls to mask their artlessness. Then he thought about the words laced with caustic reassurement that reignited the flickering flame of curiosity.

 

“What happened? To your gang, I mean.” 

 

Jinyoung sighed, as if he expected that kind of question to be asked first, but it was inevitable. Mark wanted to know for sure, that staying here didn’t mean any danger to him and the people around him, and to Jinyoung himself.

 

“We disbanded.” Jinyoung shrugged slightly, “It was as easy as that. I didn’t want to be part of it anymore, so I stepped down. From what I remember on the day of graduation, they told me that they were going to move back to their hometowns. That’s the last I heard of them, because I never bothered to keep in contact, and they don’t know I moved here.”

 

Mark felt as though he wasn’t being told the whole truth, but he didn’t push it. “But it’s not easy to escape from that kind of circle.” 

 

How Jinyoung had the mental capability of turning his life around truly made Mark feel inferior at that moment--how he, who was brought up from the trampled dirt, was able to transmogrify into a reformation of a brighter character, when Mark was still a torpid creature that couldn’t bring himself to see the silver lining in the gloomy clouds each day brings. 

 

“You’re right. It’s not easy to escape from that kind of affiliation, so I’ll leave it up to your own creativity to imagine what happened when the news got out to my supposed ‘ _enemies_ ’ that I wanted to step down.” He turned to him with a cynical, tiny smile, and the blood running in Mark’s veins suddenly turned very cold. “Long story short, the members of the other gangs that I kicked the shit out of gave me a lot of trouble at first, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, most of them either got wounded from recklessness and egotistical boasting of power, or they moved out of Korea to pursue a better profession in their illicit, criminal aspirations, so basically, they don’t know I’m here either.” He scraped the corners of his bowl with his red plastic spoon, his expression dimming a bit in vague remorse, “It’s high school, Mark-hyung, not the crime syndicate or the mafia. Maybe I did cradle a few broken bones here and there, but it’s not like I got a bullet lodged into my frontal lobe, right?”

 

“That’s not exactly reassuring, but okay.” Mark muttered, giving a cursory glance at how Jinyoung held his spoon so tightly to the point of slight trembling, but he didn’t make any note of it except a mental one. He instantly lifted his eyes away and turned his visual attention on a person cycling past them with blinking lights as he gnawed on his lip, nervously continuing, “Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why did you leave?” He recollects, suddenly, of the monochromatic memory of Junior, his back facing Mark with blood grazed across the knuckles of his clenched fists, his face an efflorescence of sporadic, swelling discolorations with a split lip. He remembers the curt smile on his face, eyes dark and viperous like a predator that had eaten its prey. 

 

The slivers of softness in his countenance immediately hardened, his dark eyes glazing with a transient but conspicuous sheen of scorn as he glared ahead, his shoulders rigid with a tight frown on his face. He chucked his empty bowl and spoon into one of the garbage cans beside a lamp post after he finished his dessert, “Isn’t it supposed to be my turn?” 

 

Mark instantly realized from the sudden change in his aura that that question was a boundary that shouldn’t be crossed and poked at. He understood the evasion in Jinyoung’s response, and that they were nowhere near in terms of trust to disclose any information that was too personal--too secretive. It wasn’t as though he was expecting to establish any trust between them again, since he had abolished that frangible concept the last time he was entrusted to protect such a fragile thing that was the core of their “friendship”, but if the both of them could get the answers they needed, maybe in the end, closure would be enough to close up the past scars that had reopened at the sight of each other again. 

 

“Yeah, okay,” Mark nodded, “it’s your turn.”

 

“Truth or dare.” 

 

The both of them knew the outcome of each question, that the both of them will always say--

 

“Truth.”

 

\--because this game was a vessel; a method to ask and answer in honesty, testing the waters of what could be questioned or not at this sudden, mutual agreement of _reconciliation_ , for lack of better word. Perhaps this would always be a reconciliation. They would never be friends again, if they ever were in the beginning, and Mark acknowledged that, and he was okay with it. He didn’t think he wanted to be friends with him again anyways, because they both harbored too many issues that couldn’t simply be conveyed with the usage of lexicon and diction. And, even despite their broken history full of broken things, Mark was aware of this notion of unspoken understanding that was still present between them--an understanding that he couldn’t find in other people. It was unsettling and it was something else he couldn't pinpoint with exact words, so he let the thought settle at the back of his mind to store it away. 

 

It seemed as though Jinyoung was thinking back to the other night as well, when the question that had been left unanswered left his lips, “What made him special?” 

 

Mark didn’t know--at least, at first, when he was asked about it the other night. The truth had always been buried beneath his subconscious, but it wasn’t until now that he had to verbally confirm it. He didn’t know if he wanted to, because thinking about his brother always felt like a slap to the face and a punch to the gut that left him winded and gasping for air. He was a liar among many other things, about himself, but this question--he couldn’t bring himself to spit out a distortion of the truth. 

 

“Kunpimook reminded me of someone,” Mark said, ”someone important that I lost. It wasn’t because I was trying to play hero or anything. But I just… I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t want to see it happen again. It's all I can say, really.”

 

Jinyoung turned his head to look at him, eyes searching behind a mask of stoicism, “See what happen?”

 

Mark smiled sadly, the image of red unbearably stinging at the corners of his eyes, “I think it’s my turn now.” 

 

Between questions that corresponded to the past and questions that asked of the present, the sky became pitch black as time progressed. They ended up at a local park that was empty, seated at a bench with the yellow light of the lamp post illuminating above them. The trees were outlined in a dark, ghostly hue, shadows darkened in the night with the cold shades of a pewter blue. The back of the bench was carved and curved in precise accordance with the human spine, and he noticed a slight fraction of the bottom edge of the bench had been chipped off, exposing raw timber beneath the polished surface.

 

“Do they know?” Mark asked, “Jackson and Jaebum. Do they know that--”

 

“Well, it’s not an everyday miscellaneous topic we can disclose out of the blue, can we? If it’s miraculously brought up in one of our conversations, then maybe I will.” Jinyoung covered his mouth as he yawned, “Truth or dare?” He knew the answer already before Mark could open his mouth.

 

“Truth.”

 

“Why didn’t you go home, after you left?” He asked after a beat of silence. “Back to America. Why stay here?”

 

All Mark could do was quietly elicit a forlorn laugh, “What home?” 

 

It was a laconic answer that was enough to suffice, and Jinyoung nodded in understanding again, turning back to look around the silent vicinity of the park, the mellow psithurism evoked by random intervals of billowing wind. 

 

Mark wanted to know how and why he changed, what propelled him to make a hundred-eighty degree turn in his life, no longer the power-hungry leader he was back then, his hostility turned into a mettle of alacrity, but it didn’t feel like the right time to ask it. Inhibition was a barrier wedged between them, their dispositions too distant and guarded to answer the curiosity brimming at the edges of their eyes, so he let the silence fall, the few sequences of whirring cars glistening in the background. 

 

He could breathe.

 

“It’s getting late.” Jinyoung stood up, glancing down at his phone as he shifted his bag comfortably on his shoulder. “I have class tomorrow.”

 

Mark looked towards the kids’ playground, empty and lonely but plentifully colourful, different-sized swings teetering from the night’s gentle breezes, “I’m going to stay here for a little bit.” He looked up at Jinyoung when he felt him staring, the luminance of the lamp post reflecting against the side of his face, the shadows underneath his features accentuating the light that shined above it, framing it into a portrait of taciturn beauty. 

 

Mark continued, “I’m not going to fall asleep outside. You don’t have to worry about that.”

 

Jinyoung narrowed his eyes at him with brief, half-hearted irritation when he heard the vague temerity and challenge in Mark's tone, and huffed. “If you don't get sick, then I guess we’ll see each other soon, won’t we?”

 

As he watched Jinyoung leave, the yellow light shining down on his figure in between junctions of light from the lamp posts and dark from the night sky he couldn’t see the stars anymore, the moon half-hidden by dense films of clouds, he studied his shrinking figure until he was swallowed up by the tenebrosity that stretched along the sidewalk and Mark couldn’t see him anymore. He sat there silently, his eyes slowly encircling the tranquil sight before him, how the cluster of trees reminded him of the mural back at the shop and how Jinyoung’s quiet presence had managed to bring him back down from the dark, unconscious permutations that had submerged from the lurking waters of his plaintive ennui. How truly strange it was, and scary, because wasn’t he supposed to feel mad? Vindictive, even? But he didn’t feel a single negative emotion directed towards anyone but himself, and it’s always been that way, how hatred had twisted itself inbound, integrating itself in the concavities of his nature. He never really was able to hold grudges, anyways, even as a young child. 

 

But today, he had stepped forward, even if it was an impulsive notion and was something he had endless qualms about. He didn’t know how he was feeling, but maybe it was satisfaction. Maybe relief, because at the end of the day, he came out with answers, even if there still a glut of unanswered questions bombinating in his mind. His mother always told him that satisfaction was always unsatisfactory and that relief was always temporary, and perhaps it was true, but right at this moment, he wanted to experience the long-lost emotion of self-complacency he hadn't felt for a long time, even if it may be lamentably ephemeral. 

 

He looked back up at the sky, inhaling the residues of petrichor from the day before that lingered in the shrubs of the trees and the ebbing grass, and wondered more if he truly was just sitting himself up for more hurt in exchange for ambivalent closure, but as he closed his eyes, a peculiar feeling of requiescence gradually enveloped him in a fleeting, inscrutable warmth. 

 

For some reason, the silence surrounding him tonight didn’t feel as lonely as it always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man, I'm kind of torn at how I felt about this chapter. I really hope it's okay and that I was still able to convey the mood I wanted to go for. orz It always sucks how you picture this vivid scene in your head, only to have no idea how to put it into words. I think with everything going on in my life, it's been hard to keep on writing with the same motivation (because writer's block), but reading your guys' comments always refuels my passion, so I want to thank you guys so much for your sweet words! 
> 
> I'll be busy next week because it's the end of the term soon and I gotta keep my grades up. Plus, I have this music exchange thing that's going to take up most of my time, so if there's no update next week, then my apologies! But you can expect an update after next week if that happens.  
> Thank you so much for reading, and have an awesome awesome day and surround yourself with people you love and support!


	6. harbinger of wintry sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I couldn't update last week! I was on the brink of missing this week too, but I just so happened to finish this chapter on time and I am beat.  
> I hope I can make it up from last week with tonight's chapter of 5000+ words of sheer torture. (sorry :'D)  
> (Btw Mark's hair in the story is the same as his hairstyle from Sanctuary.)
> 
> t/w: vague and very brief mentions and imagery of suicide and self-harm.

Winter soon arrived as the vestiges of Autumn disappeared into the swirling smoke of frosty breaths and icy flowers that bloomed across opaque window panes of buildings. Although no snow befell upon them yet, the weather was billowing with a gelidity that nipped at windburned skin and desiccated hands. The sky softened into a darker grey, clear and vivid, but shone glaringly in a silver light during the chillier mornings. 

 

Jinyoung frequented the bookstore, markedly around the early morning on weekends, equipped with a laptop and his leather satchel brimming with cumbersome textbooks. The bookstore was notably a place for purchasing and whatnot, but there was a spacious area with tables and chairs beyond the shelves that accommodated to the public for any leisure reading and studying, almost mirroring that of a library. Ever since that night of stilted communication, Mark noticed the small changes between them that had occurred noiselessly. It was in the air, the tension slightly subsided into something more placid, the minutiae of their words that flowed better yet was still reluctant to be thoroughly truthful. Truth or dare no longer became a prompt. It slowly waned into a mutual, simple reciprocation of ask and answer. That didn’t mean that things were okay between them, because perhaps things will never be truly okay, this “reconciliation” will never be an actual reconciliation, but the inconclusive spite that was initially present in Jinyoung’s attitude had abated into a presence of a milder tempest, of stoic niceties in a softer, quieter disposition, and that was enough. 

 

It was strange and undefinable, how Mark would imperceptibly (but unadmittedly) look forward to see him behind the faint scintillations of his mind, and it made him feel a weight of discomfort when he would suddenly be aware of this feeling he didn’t know the name of, and he didn’t think he wanted to know at all. 

 

Some days, which was most of the time, they wouldn’t talk at all, reserved in their own circle of occupied pursuits and personal thoughts. However, when they did interact, it was succinct but oddly fulfilling, a warm little subtlety throbbing in center of his chest. Their conversations at the bookstore were occasionally desultory and depthless; some days there would be times where one of them were bold enough to probe pass the perimeters of their unspoken boundaries. They’d discuss book recommendations and laconic opinions about each one when they lacked spirit and effort. It was a peculiar, frangible exchange, but neither of them bothered to stop. 

 

“Why literature?” Mark initiated quietly and looked up in thought, studying the beige ceiling, faded and dusty marks interwoven in a delicate, askew pattern.

 

Jinyoung glanced up from his laptop he had been rapidly typing on and quirked an eyebrow, his table littered in thick volumes and messy loose-leaf notes, expression solemn as usual. 

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

 

Mark turned his head around to survey the interior of the building. The bookstore was relatively empty, save for an elderly man lifting up several magazines in a cursory manner, and Jackson, who was amusingly falling asleep at the counter, jerking every time his arm gave away as he leaned his face on it. His manager didn’t arrive yet.

 

“Yeah.” He nodded, settling down in the seat across from Jinyoung, teeth tugging at his bottom lip as his eyes confusedly looked from one textbook to another, eyebrows scrunching as tiny words on the pages went past his absent-minded brain. “But as you can visibly perceive, it doesn’t officially start until later in the day when it isn’t nine in the morning.” 

 

“Slacker. As much as I find this quaint place pleasant, I worry for its business.” Jinyoung muttered, tone winnowed with a thread of sarcasm. He sighed, fingers tapping against the maple wooden table, dark eyes flickering with a flash of stifled reluctance before he spoke, voice low. 

 

“I like it--literature, all kinds of literature. I’ve always had a keen interest in it.”

 

“Since when?” Mark couldn’t remember the times where any fleeting hints of Jinyoung’s interest in literature had surfaced amidst his power-hungry reign, when he flourished the brightest with bruises on his face, a flame of ingrained ferocity embedded deep in his rightful, vehement territory. It was baffling to imagine how such a violent person could outgrow the blatant propensities of enmity and grasp at the last strings of an expressive, literary pursuit.

 

“Since I could remember.” The ends of his lips curled in a sinuous arch, edged with a hint of dourness, shrugging a bit. “When I wasn’t always an angry person.”

 

“And are you still--” A bold impulsivity kindled in him as words spilled out inadvertently, “an angry person?” 

 

Obsidian eyes focused on him as the meditative question lingered in the tepid atmosphere between them, fulgurating tentatively, wide-open and unwavering with a semblance of stoicism masking his fazed train of thoughts. It was as though he was considering the length of probity in his answer that wasn’t quite lucid in his own mind, but he didn’t express a single ounce of reflection in his expression, and Mark couldn’t tell what he was thinking about as he stared unabashedly at him as he always did. 

 

Honesty was truly a serrated thing.

 

“I don’t know.” Jinyoung finally said, a strange exposure of uncertainty filling the gaps of his sullen veneer, and Mark realized at that moment that dubiosity didn’t suit him at all. 

 

 _I don’t know._ Jinyoung always knew. Back then, he had this riotous flame of haughtiness that encircled him, always intertwined with steadfast assurance in his fierce movements. Even now, with an air of underlying, sedate confidence surrounding him, the brazen pomposity no longer present, he still seemed unquestionably certain with his words and actions. But, to see him falter just ever so slightly at this moment, was able to catch Mark off guard, but perhaps that merely amplified the fact that he didn’t know him as truthfully as he thought he had did in his own world. Jinyoung’s hard gaze traveled back down to the screen of his laptop as he sat up straighter, shoulders rigid and tight, and that was a sign that the topic should be dropped. 

 

Mark added that to his mental checklist of what he should avoid asking and doing:  
- _Don’t question his anger._  
- _He doesn’t want to talk about the reason behind him leaving the gang. His hands tremble slightly into fists, clenching and unclenching. He gets tense and he frowns. He’ll avoid it. The memory must make him irate._  
- _Don’t ask him how he managed to get into college. That’ll just show how incredulous you are, which shouldn’t be a surprise for the both of you, but it could feel humiliating if actually spoken._  
- _Don’t ask about why he is majoring in sociology. His expression darkens just slightly and he grits his teeth. It’s a secret.  
_ - _Asking him about what happened in high school would be treading on thin ice, as well as asking about the other night._

 

He’s realized already that he’ll probably never have all of his questions answered, because being private about their bleakest thoughts were part of their inherent nature, but it was okay. He didn’t ask for anymore, because that would be what friends do, and they weren’t. 

 

As he stored those gathered facts away, he heard the door chime, the signal of a customer’s presence. He studied Jinyoung for a moment, acknowledging that he didn’t want to talk anymore, and Mark stood up, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down to self-consciously cover his hands.

 

“ _Despair._ ” Mark said, and saw Jinyoung pause, fingers hovering over the muffled keyboard. “Tell me about it, one day.” His expression was unreadable again, but the irritation in his demeanor seemed to have ebbed. 

 

Silence. 

 

“Okay.”

 

Sometimes, the tiniest things can unexpectedly take up the most room in your heart.

 

\---------

 

Then again, the tiniest things that take up the most room in your heart can easily disappear like it was never there before. That’s why he instantly knew something was wrong the moment he regained consciousness from his short-lived, dreary slumber. 

 

(He should have known that the transient, convalescent warmth wouldn’t last long.)

 

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason how he knew, but perhaps it was the ceiling; how he could suddenly see the tiny cracks that petered off from each end, or how he noticed a gossamer pattern of a spider’s web dangling from the corner. Maybe it was the way his heart thumped against his chest with a heavy rhythm, how he was suddenly so redundantly aware of his odd breathing, how his mind was in a muddled haze of emptiness and the numb tingling of his fingers and limbs that didn’t feel connected. There was a peculiar cavity of vacancy, larger and impeccably hollow than usual, and he couldn’t understand why. He felt out of it. He felt like if he moved any inch of his body, his skin would break up and fall apart. 

 

His room was still dark, the incipient sun still yet to set its gradient hues of a bright, pale morning, gelid frosts and wintry curlicues spotting the aqueous windows, the vestiges of condensation frozen, sunlight refracting the ice crystals that made a brilliant sight. Goosebumps trailed up and down his arms that were riddled with thin rows of year-old bumps, his body shivering involuntarily from the algid frigidness. Was it still morning or night? He couldn’t precisely tell. 

 

There was always the creeping edges of moribund apathy, but this was a different kind of hollowness, something that was starkly unpredictable and staidly familiar that only occurred on a particular day. But his mind wouldn’t function properly, the cogs wouldn’t turn and the engine was malfunctioning, so he laid there lifelessly like a cadaver, like his tangible soul had departed from his body and he was abstractly watching time pass by for what seemed like hours and days in a framework of a hazy filmstrip. He never went back to sleep, blinking slowly with his mind dolefully blank as he stared up at the dire ceiling. He didn’t even notice the beige light of the risen sun from outside had lit up his entire room in a welcoming harbinger of a chilly morning. Time had passed exponentially, and he hadn’t realized, and wondered if it had always gone by so fast. 

 

He gave a violent jerk when the jarring sound of his alarm clock erupted the silence and knocked him out of the absent reverie he found himself in. Beads of cold sweat clung to his skin as he weakly reached over to his nightstand to shut off his alarm clock. His chest was itching with a suffocating uneasiness as he reluctantly sat up, trying to stabilize his volatile composure, knowing that he couldn’t appear listless when his shift started in an hour. He felt rickety and weak as he got out of bed, balancing himself on the headboard of his bed when he felt lightheaded. As the room stopped spinning, he approached the bathroom, his peripheral vision grabbing at the sight of a calendar as he trudged past, and he halted, heart dropping to the ground as his blood ran cold. A lurking realization hovered above his head and he shuddered.

 

He’d forgotten. He’d never forgotten. He would always stay up the whole night the day before, unable to sleep a wink, feeling the same moribund hollowness settling in the core of his chest, thinking and thinking and not feeling. He’d feel heavy with a weight of guilt crushing him before it would slowly subside as the days after that would pass in a slow blur. He’d never forgotten, not ever since his brother’s death, so what happened? Why _this time?_

 

 _Oh._ That’s right. He was distracted. His mind was occupied with beauty around him and darkness surrounding him, but most of all, the flicker of warmth dancing in his rib cage, the feeling of incomplete content that was unfamiliar and welcoming. He had been inattentive, too focused on the novels Jinyoung had recommended him, staying up late until the inauguration of dawn to finish them when he couldn’t sleep (which was frequent), too focused on picking at the ambiguous pieces of their conversations, trying to decipher if every word Mark received had another meaning beyond it. That was why he forgot. 

 

_Forgotten._

 

A shiver of erratic fear dithered him. 

 

Mark had always been pushing himself to stop remembering, to block the sight of his brother’s warped image and the vibrancy of his smile that Mark often finds himself yearning to see again, but he also didn’t want to forget him. He was scared of forgetting his only family member that truly did love him for who he is. What did this mean, then? 

 

Trembling, his feet moved hastily towards the bathroom. As he flicked on the lights, he was welcomed by the reflection of himself on the mirror, and he barely held back a flinch as he stared at his own piceous eyes, black and enveloped by darkened hues of circles underneath them. His face was an unpleasant sight of sunken cheekbones, his complexion an unhealthy shade of alabaster that matched the paleness of his lips, his features angled in a morbid fatigue, and his tousled brown hair unchanging but grimy with unwashed grease. But there was something deeper about his face, something recognizable and something he forced himself to pocket in the deep fissures of his mind. As he stared at himself more, the more disgust he felt, the more he felt as though the unwanted, surreptitious ghost would unravel right before him and present to him his vices and a face he didn’t want to see again. He shut his eyes, hands gripping the counter tightly as he hung his head down, willing himself to not reminiscence and remember again and _breathe breathe breathe._

 

It was cold, so cold, but his skin was used to his cold bones, held together by a skeleton of his nightmares and his fears. 

 

He dropped to his knees and flipped open the toilet seat before he dry heaved into the porcelain bowl that was icy cold to the touch as he spluttered on nothing and coughed at his own spit. He felt bile rising, but it wouldn’t come out. He didn’t even know if there was anything he could squeeze out of his empty stomach, but the sensation was terrible and disturbing to his senses and he hated that feeling. 

 

“Shit,” He cursed underneath his breath when he heard his phone ring blaringly outside. With shaking arms, he hauled himself up, struggling to stand up straight as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His phone had stopped ringing the moment Mark stepped out of the bathroom, and he paused. His phone rang again. 

 

He shuffled towards it and picked it up, closing his eyes, voice hoarse, “Hello?”

 

“Mark!” It was Jackson. “Where are you? You’re running late.”

 

“I am?” Mark exhaled a breath, taking a seat down on his bed. He hadn’t noticed at all. He looked out the window. It looked brighter. “I--sorry. I’ll be there soon. Sorry. I--sorry.” 

 

“Are you okay?” Jackson sounded worried. He shouldn’t be. “You sound disorientated. Did you oversleep or something?”

 

“Yes. Maybe. Sorry.” Mark lowered his head and covered his face with his hand. He didn’t want to see it, but he wanted to make sure of it. “Jackson?” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“What… day is it today?” 

 

“It’s Sunday--”

 

“No, I mean--” He took a shuddery breath, “what’s the _date_?”

 

“It’s the 4th of December.” Jackson said dubiously, and Mark could hear the way his eyebrows lifted in inquisition. “Are you really okay, Mark? You’re acting weird and you sound kind of sick.” 

 

“Oh.” He breathed. _It’s the 4th._ Mark repeated it to himself silently, his mind buzzing, his eyes squeezed shut, his breaths flimsy. The building, his entire room, his bed he was sitting on-- _everything_ was cold. 

 

“Mark?” Jackson’s voice sounded far away. “What’s wrong?” 

 

“It’s nothing.” He replied too eagerly, too quickly to fully support the pretense that everything _really_ was okay, and he cleared his throat, “Nothing. I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m just--I’m on my way. I’m fine, I’m fine.”

 

“Mark, you don’t sound fine.”

 

“I’m _fine_ , okay? I’m coming.” He didn’t realize he was whispering harshly. 

 

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” Jackson said, concern and obstinacy audible in his tone. “I’m serious. If you’re not feeling… well, then you should stay home. We can handle it here.”

 

“I’m fine.” Mark repeated himself, albeit weakly this time.

 

“Stop saying that. ” Jackson said. “I’m going to tell the manager that you can’t make it today. Just--go rest, or something-- anything to make yourself feel better. I’m not kidding. Don’t force yourself if you’re not… doing so great.”

 

Mark swallowed as he let out a deep breath, guilt etched into his voice. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” Jackson hesitated. “I just want to remind you that I’m here for you, you know? If something happened. I hope you remember that, if you ever need anyone.”

 

There was a knot formed in his throat, and he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he could say, because even though he appreciated Jackson’s barefaced kindness, he couldn’t bring himself to receive it without viewing it as pity instead, and he shouldn’t have, but did anyways.

 

He swallowed audibly and let out a slow breath, giving Jackson a hum of acknowledgement when he couldn’t form any words to answer back.

 

“Call me if you need anything, okay? I’ll talk to you later, Mark.”

 

Mark cut the call and dropped his phone onto his bed. He rubbed his arms, trying to make himself warm, but all he could was make himself colder. Colder, and colder, and colder. It will always be cold for him. 

 

\--------

 

He couldn’t stop seeing his brother in the littlest, tiniest details of his surroundings when he didn’t want to-- in the things that didn’t even correlate to his brother but reminded Mark of him anyways. He saw his brother at the sink of his kitchenette, in the invisible spaces of his bedroom among his studio apartment, in Mark’s own reflection in the mirror, in the minimalistic decor and cherry wooden shelves filled with books, in his lamps and in the ceiling, and most of all, in the bathtub of his bathroom. He could see the outline of his brother’s ghost drifting in it, the ghastly paleness of his blue-tinted body, rubicund water brimming near the edges as red-stained rivulets dropped to the tiled floor. 

 

The monotonous ticking of the wall clock pervaded across the steep silence of the room. He could only stare at the burnt sienna rug, the fibrous cotton stained with secondhand antiquity. His brain wandered around in detached intervals before it plummeted back to the morose reality, his heart sinking every time, and it was a repetitive cycle as the sky dimmed from a cloudy, mazarine blue to a dome of darkened indigo. Time was a distant concept for him. Emptiness bloomed like dead flowers in ragged thistles of his heart. 

 

His mother’s voice echoed in his ears.

 

_“Why him?”_

 

Mark looked up when he heard a knock on his door.

 

_“Why couldn’t it be you?”_

 

The knocking intensified when Mark didn’t answer. The clamor annoyed him, but it distracted him enough to blink away the aqueous glaze in his vision. He didn’t know who it could be at this hour. He never got visitors. So, as he reluctantly got up from the floor and dragged himself towards the door to view through the peephole, he froze at the sight of an unexpected figure. 

 

“Mark-hyung,” It was Jinyoung, wrapped in black, rapping on the door continuously and impatiently, “I know you’re in there.” 

 

“No, I’m not.” Mark whispered, mostly to himself as his feet were nailed to the ground, staring at Jinyoung through the fisheye lenses as his pulse accelerated just slightly. He was lost at what to do, so he stood there without moving an inch, hoping that Jinyoung would give up and leave when there was no response, but he was unyielding as an intransigent downpour. 

 

“I’m cold, you know.” Jinyoung called, impetuosity carved in the warped lineaments of his face, voice wry, “Letting a visitor in is common etiquette. I could really use a warm drink and I’ll be disturbing the neighbors at this time if you don't open the door.” 

 

Mark bit down on his lip until he tasted the metallic sting of blood. Agitation flooded him, wringing around the palpability of his stark mind. Voice wobbly, he projected it loud enough so Jinyoung could hear from outside, “How did you know where I live?”

 

“I didn’t.” He replied flatly, his hand dropping to his side when he finally stopped the horrendous knocking. “Jackson did.”

 

“He shouldn't know either.” Because Mark never even told him where he lived in the first place. He never brought anyone to his place.

 

“Well, your manager does.” Jinyoung said. “Your address is written on your resume.”

 

Mark took a sharp intake of breath, gripping the hem of his shirt. He didn’t have the strength to feel angry, only a plaintive exhaustion. He asked raspily, “Is he even _allowed_ to do that?” 

 

“Apparently, in your workplace, it is.” A momentary pause. His tone was a grey flat line that sounded scratchy, like he was straining to get the words out of his mouth. “They're not at fault. Jackson was only asking on my behalf, and they let me know, since they were worried about you too.” 

 

Mark couldn’t help but take a confused step back, eyebrows knitting together. “Why?” To think that Jinyoung felt a sliver of concern for him-- _no_ , that was explicitly impossible to ever occur, let alone simply fathom. It couldn’t have been pity because Jinyoung didn’t do pity, and most definitely neither did Junior. There was no other reason for him to come here, to the extent of disturbing the neighbors and his abysmal investment in grief. Mark didn’t think he wanted to know, and he wanted to turn around and walk away, but at the same time, he didn’t. He didn’t want to go back to the stark, empty spaces in his mind, and was indisposed to wallowing in retrospection again. “Why are you here?”

 

“Because a man can only have so many issues.” Came his guileless, elusive answer, and there was no elaboration--nothing. Mark stood there silently, staring at the feeble locks of his door, contemplating and finally conceding. 

 

The first thing Mark noticed when he gingerly opened the door was how bright the hallway was in contrast to the inside of his dark apartment, the warm light of the corridor spilling into the room. He shielded his eyes for a moment, letting them adjust to the change in lighting. Jinyoung stood there, an imposing figure clad in dark attire, his black hair tousled wildly from the brittle wind from outside, and noticed details he couldn’t see from the peephole, like how the tips of his ears and the high points of his cheeks were tinted red from the cold temperature. He looked impetuous, eyes steely and cryptic, mouth set in a tight line. 

 

"Can I come in, now?" Jinyoung deadpanned. After a transitory moment of hesitance, Mark nodded and finally opened the door a bit wider to let him enter through the threshold. 

 

Jinyoung wordlessly stepped in, and as he walked past, Mark detected the slight trembling of his shoulders, but made no comment about it. He closed the door afterwards and went to turn on the ceiling light, the bulb flickering intermittently before it fully lit up the room in a yellow underwash. His studio apartment was small but affordable, the walls painted in cracks of a desolate white, with simple decor and lack of intimate embellishment. It was lackluster and plain, his things hazardously misplaced and his sheets a cluttering mess. He never tidies up his apartment for visitors since he never expects any, but as he watched Jinyoung study the room in a disinterested gaze, he knew that he probably didn’t care about the appearance. 

 

“What do you want?” Mark gripped the sides of his pants when his voice came out hoarse. He suddenly remembers that he hasn’t changed out of his sleeping clothes, and felt slightly embarrassed that he had to look so undignified in front of him, with his unruly hair and his ugliness showing through his visible enervation. He cleared his throat when Jinyoung sent him a questioning glance, “I mean, I have tea.”

 

He nodded, his pondering eyes nailed onto his bookshelf, approaching it with gentle strides. “I’m fine with anything, as long as it’s hot.” 

 

“Okay.” Mark went over to the kitchenette, filling the kettle with cold water before he placed it on the stove. As he waited for it to boil, he fished through the bottom cabinets for a spare cup and grabbed an earl grey tea bag. He stood there idly, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt, unsure of what to do or say in this kind of situation. Jinyoung’s abrupt presence was unexpected and it threw him off as though today wasn’t unpredictable enough already. Trepidation clawed at his chest, optatively wanting to be alone again so that no one he knew could see him in such a pathetic, distraught state. 

 

“You’re actually reading _Invisible Monsters_ ,” Jinyoung stated, holding up the hardcover copy of the book he had borrowed from the public library not too far from where he lived. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“How do you like it so far?” Jinyoung nonchalantly flipped through the pages, eyes lighting up softly in recognition as he skimmed at familiar words and phrases. 

 

“It’s good.” Mark could only come up with a default answer, and he bit down on his lip. “Rather grotesque, at times.”

 

“What’s the point of creating a great work of fiction if you censor yourself?” Jinyoung shrugged lightly, putting the book down. “Authors who are uninhibited about their outlandish ideas are the best ones, in my personal opinion.”

 

“I guess so.” Mark halfheartedly hummed, eyes lowering to the herringwood floor before he heard the shrill whistle of the kettle expediting in a high-pitched volume. He quickly made the tea with sluggish arms before he shuffled towards Jinyoung, holding it out for him to take. Jinyoung murmured a quiet ‘thank you’ as he reached out to take it from Mark’s hands, but his eyes suddenly flickered down towards his bare forearms in a prolonged gaze when he noticed something worth the attention. Mark didn’t know what he was staring at, and was about to ask him what was wrong, when he realized that he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. The blood in his veins turned into ice and his heart felt immensely heavy, as if it was replaced by a gargantuan cut of steel. 

 

“Take it.” Mark pulled his hands away as fast as he could, hiding his arms behind him as he took a cursory step back. He took in a sharp breath, and hated how wobbly his defensive voice sounded. “I don’t know what you’re actually here for. I’m sorry you came all the way here in the cold, but I don’t feel like talking today.”

 

Jinyoung took a careful sip of his tea, lightly blowing against the steam that rose in a hazy, white snake. As he embraced the cup with his hands to warm them up, his eyes wandered towards the closed windows covered by the russet goblet curtains. He didn’t say anything about what he had saw, quiet and somber in his own bubble. 

 

“You always did have a distaste for this month,” Jinyoung said, “and this particular day.”

 

Mark tensed, his hands clenching tightly as his nails dug crescents deeply into his palms. 

 

“You always missed school on this day. When you showed up the next day, you’d never speak and look up at anyone. You were hard to read when I couldn’t see your eyes. Sometimes, I’d forget that you were with us because I hardly hear you following. You’d chew on your lip a lot when you were anxious, especially when someone would talk to you when you wanted to be left alone.” Jinyoung placed his book bag down as he took a seat down on the floor, setting the scalding cup of tea aside as he rested his back against the side of the bed. He took off his pea coat as well and folded it into his lap, revealing a cobalt blue turtleneck. “I guess some things don’t change.”

 

_“It’s in your face and in your eyes. Always in your eyes.”_

 

And at that moment, an epiphany flashed before his sight, and he grasped at the sudden realization that Junior, the cold-hearted boy he had perceived as had always been watching him-- _seeing_ him-- and noticed the depth of his expressions, his external language, his nervous habits, his intact weaknesses, and even as he was Jinyoung now, he still saw through him, and had never fully stopped. It was strange, really, how unreal it was to come to understand that Jinyoung committed Mark’s way of thinking into memory and nervous inclinations, and even after three years, he was still able to remember them. He was still able to decipher the puzzles of thoughts behind his body language, the way he’d chewed on his lower lip out of an apprehensive propensity and if he was troubled, and how he didn’t look at people directly in the eye not because he was being disrespectful, but because he didn’t liked to be looked at as though he were a negligible equation. 

Mark didn't think he was worth watching or noticing. He had always been a jagged prop for the background.

 

“You’ve always noticed,” Mark’s voice was hardly a whisper, but Jinyoung was still able to hear him. _You’ve always understood._

 

It was odd how someone so straightforward and direct in his words could verbalize such significance behind a cloak of vagueness and ambiguity. 

 

Jinyoung didn’t answer that, and merely took another swig of his tea. _Who could change this much?_ Mark wanted to hate him-- for finding another chance worth living through, for being able to find a quintessence of purpose that fueled his motivation to _change,_ how the both of them silently agreed that they had no future three years ago but now here they were, fate (a concept he scoffs at incessantly) pulling at the strings of their suddenly intertwined lives, roles switched and potential either unlocking or buried six-feet underneath the inferiority Mark felt. But he couldn't bring himself to actually hate him. He never could. He gnawed at his lower lip in furrowed contemplation, before he tentatively shuffled towards him and took a seat beside Jinyoung on the floor, leaving a space worth the width of a rectangle in between them. He crossed his arms to cover the scars and closed his eyes, feeling puffs of air on his skin from his brother’s intangible presence, encircling him like a serpentine entity.

 

“I don’t want to know the importance behind this particular day of the year.” Jinyoung spoke up after a quiet moment. “So you don’t need to talk. _I’ll_ do the talking.”

 

Mark cracked open his eyes, blinking at him in muted disbelief. “About what?”

 

Jinyoung took out a book from his satchel, the cover a dark grey colour with an eau de Nil border, variegated stripes framing the middle with a simplistic flair. “About _Despair_." 

 

Mark stared at the book in slight surprise.

 

Mark gripped the fabric of his pants, the vacancy in his soul waning into an odd sculpture of minuscule warmth that was slowly growing, and he didn’t know why. Everything was unclear to him, like how when Jinyoung was with him, warmth would replace the cold murkiness in the craters of his heart. He wasn’t supposed to feel like that. He wasn’t supposed to feel an ephemeral sense of camaraderie. He wanted to ask Jinyoung why he was being so nice, so indifferent to the fact that he had told him that he wouldn’t trust him anymore. Why would he keep company with the disloyal boy who had broken his promises?

 

But he didn’t question him, not yet, at least, as he listened to him speak. He didn’t know that Jinyoung could sound so soft, his serene voice blending in with the still silence of his dull home. The gritty roughness he had grown used to hearing was gone, no longer coarse from yelling profanities and cheering with a thirst for violence. It was strange, truly a peculiarity, as Mark stared at him, his unbruised face, and his hands that were marred with faint, pale scars of past fights. Mark couldn’t bring himself to start decoding the tiny, mysterious facets of Jinyoung’s character as his eyelids began to feel heavy and deeply exhausted, his whole body relaxed after the tension he didn’t know he sustained had subsided. Words were flowing through his ears; he was unable to focus to properly comprehend them, but with the mellifluous voice lulling him to a state of unexpected placidity (that was remarkably unsettling, because feeling calm on the day of his brother’s death has never happened before), he felt okay, for a moment, even if it may be fleeting, as the bleak, painful emptiness started to ebb along with the cadence of his words. He closed his eyes, solely focusing on Jinyoung’s voice to block everything else out--to block out his brother’s red-stained bath and wretched smile, his father’s disappearing mirth and debilitating pride, and his mother’s passionate disappointment in ever bringing him into existence.

 

For the first time in five years on the day his brother had taken his own life, Mark was finally able to fall asleep with a heart that palpitated with an unfamiliar peacefulness. And for once, he dreamed about someone else instead of his brother this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this count as hurt/comfort?? Was this chapter okay too? gosh I don't know, maybe I'm too hard on myself, but this isn't the best I've written.  
> i am sorry, but at least there's progress!!  
> speaking of being busy again:
> 
> 1.) I will totally be busy next week and the week after that. I've got a basketball tournament to referee at, grad portraits to worry about, blood donations to go to, and an ungodly amount of tests and labs. (grade 12 year is horrible.) So, my apologies once again if I end up not updating next week again! 
> 
> 2.) I'm also thinking about writing Jinyoung's perspective during the events that took place in this chapter, so we can take a look inside his thoughts and what he's thinking, and it'd be posted as an extra of chapter 6, if that makes any sense. I'm not sure yet, but if I have the time, I'll totally try and attempt it. 
> 
> 3.) Lastly, I just wanted to say thank you so much for the sweet and wonderful comments I've been getting! I know I've probably thanked you guys a lot already, but I sincerely mean it. Re-reading back to the comments has definitely motivated me in the midst of my writer's block, so thank you everyone so much for reading and for all the warm feedback and love I've been getting.  
> Seriously, you guys are the best. I love you all. ♡ฅ(ᐤˊ꒳ฅˋᐤ♪)


	7. comfort food and something genuine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thus, progress is made.

The sunlight was soft against his skin, prodding at his eyelids that lit the back of his eyes in a bumblebee glow. The chilly morning sent a cloak of goosebumps down his spine, an inexplicable remnant of unfamiliar warmth suspended around the tangibility of his body; his fingers twitching, his eyes slowly fluttering open. He saw the ceiling again, the whiteness simonized with a silvery gold sheen from the sun’s rays that percolated through the russet curtains and illuminated his apartment in a gentle light. He couldn’t see the cracks anymore and the spider web had merged with the paleness of the sun. There was something peaceful residing in him, how he woke up so quietly with a breath of fresh air. The smothering emptiness churned and rumbled but it was ebbing, fading, slowly waning and becoming bearable.

 

His eyes lowered to the blankets that were pulled over his shoulders, his cheek resting against the plushness of it. He didn’t remember going to bed--didn’t remember falling asleep so comfortably before. Was this how it felt like to obtain a good night’s sleep? A tempo of calm heartbeats and lethargic thoughts that didn’t immediately wander askew into the existing memories of hands tinted red, that didn’t delve into the dark depths of his thoughts that left behind virulent footprints in his mind, that didn’t provoke a chain of unyielding emotions of regret, guilt, and self-hatred, that didn’t fall limp from the ever-present empty spaces in his heart. It was foreign to wake up without insomniatic eyes and apprehension clawing at his insides from a nightmare. He couldn’t remember what he dreamt about last night too, but it must have been something placid. Something pleasant enough that didn’t render him into a state of panic. 

 

He slowly craned his neck to the side, his eyes blurry with sleep widening. He spotted Jinyoung across from him on the floor, leaning on the wall with his head resting against the side of the bookshelf, his coat draped over his shoulders with hands limply clutching a book. The cup was knocked over, but the floor was free of stains. His chest rose with every placid intake of breath, his face supple and peaceful in his slumber. Mark stared at him as he recalled the events from yesterday, hands clutching at the sheets from the sensation of a fluttering heartbeat, stuttering every now and then for no apparent reason. Jinyoung’s intentions were vague and cryptic, hidden by his resistance to expose a sentimental vulnerability, and Mark was curious to know the why of what he did--why he helped him. But, as he watched him sleep soundlessly, yet to be awaken by the morning, he couldn’t pry his eyes away.

 

His brother became a distant image in his head, his presence lingering but abating, and he didn’t know why that came to be. Mark was supposed to be restless, supposed to be plagued by his brother’s dead body and the stifling regret that drowned him. It didn’t attack him this time when it should have, but perhaps it was because this was the first time he wasn’t alone in his own thoughts, the presence of another body distracting him. He couldn’t shake the foreboding feeling that it was just postponed, however, lurking around in the back of his mind, ready to choke the stability out of him without any warning, but right now, as of this moment, it was easier to breathe again.

 

It was strange to have someone in his room when he’s been waking up all alone ever since he was a child; to have a palpable presence in his company. It ate away the loneliness he often felt. 

 

“Your brazen staring is creeping me out.” Jinyoung’s sleepy voice ringed through the silence of the room, his eyes still closed and body still unmoving, making Mark flinch from surprise, “Stop that.” 

Mark quickly turned around in a sheepish manner, his blanket rustling like undulating winds carrying sand dunes afar, embarrassed to be caught staring so openly. He faced the wall instead, his back turned towards Jinyoung, letting silence befall them once again. Mark could hear the whirring of vehicles outside, the clinking and clattering of silverware from next door, the muffled steps from upstairs. He listened to their soft puffs of breaths filling the spaces of the room, the comfort of unusual serenity shared between them. They were lost in their own thoughts, in the drowsiness of the Monday morning.

 

Mark felt inclined to say something, and turned back around to face the ceiling again. “You stayed.” He said it like an observation, an obvious statement that he needed to confirm. 

 

“Yeah.” Came his languid mumble. 

 

“Why?”

 

“Because your bookshelf was enticing. Because you’re an idiot. I don’t know.” He sounded annoyed, shifting in his uncomfortable-looking sleeping position. 

 

Mark stared at him until Jinyoung finally sat up, bones cracking and realigning, an irritated furrow in his burrows as he squinted his eyes open through the sunlight. Mark could see the specks of dust basking in the rays, like an illusion of soft snow floating against the gilded effulgence, his features glowing at haphazard angles. 

 

Jinyoung let out an unamused grunt, rubbing the back of his sore neck as he shut his eyes once more. “Are you normally this engaging in the morning?” 

 

“No,” Mark said. “because I normally don’t have anyone to engage with in the morning.”

“Then go back to sleep.”

 

Sleeping wasn’t that simple for him. It wasn’t an easy task, and he wanted to savour the moment of placidity before dread can take hold of him again. 

 

“I think you, of all people, should know how hard that is.” 

 

There was silence. Jinyoung didn’t speak, seemingly mulling over those words as he took them into consideration and understanding. He shuffled through his coat, taking out his phone to check the time. In lieu of reciprocating the conversation with Mark, he changed the direction of it instead, “Do you have work?”

 

“In the afternoon.” 

 

“And you’re going.” He monotonously stated.

 

“Yes.” Mark confirmed, eyes wandering to the window. “The rent’s not going to pay itself.”

 

“Your shitty health isn’t going to get any better by itself too.” Jinyoung countered back with a snappy tone, his voice rough like sandpaper that dripped with what seemed like irritation. 

 

Slightly puzzled, Mark slanted him a curious glance at his harsh comment. He slowly sat up from bed, hair tousled in an askew manner, his mind wandering back to last night’s events and the way Jinyoung eyed him, his arms, the unreadable expression he had when he noticed. Mark immediately stiffened and opened his mouth to ask him, but his stomach’s gurgling had interrupted him, causing the agitation to bubble into embarrassment as he tried to induce his stomach to stop making sounds, although the effort was futile. 

 

He heard Jinyoung sigh before the rustle of clothes as he stood up. 

“You’ve just proved my point. You didn’t eat yesterday, did you?”

 

Mark didn’t have the appetite when all he could do was think about was the diluted red rippling gently around a floating body. He reluctantly mumbled as he threw back the sheets, “I forgot.”

 

Jinyoung sent him a flat stare. “Can I use the bathroom?”

 

“Uh--” Mark pointed at the door that led to it, “yeah. There's mouthwash you can use too, if you want.”

 

Jinyoung nodded with a polite “thanks”. He shuffled towards it before he threw a glance back at Mark, “Get dressed or something. I know a place.” 

 

Mark blinked questioningly.

 

“To eat.” 

 

“Oh.” Mark watched as Jinyoung closed the door behind him, the sound of running water coming from the tap audible. It was rather unnerving to have Jinyoung here, to invite him to a place to eat as if the grudges he had seemingly held had slowly faded away. It wasn’t concern for Mark--no, he had deduced that as an impossibility. The tension was there, but the unspeakable facet of a strange sense of connection still lingered between them, heavy and unaddressed. Still, Mark told himself that they weren’t on the brink of ever developing another friendship again, and was merely reassociating so that answers could be fed. That must have been it. There was nothing else attached. Mark just needed to get accustomed to the fact that vindication wasn’t a part of Jinyoung’s ambiguous intentions anymore like he did in the beginning.

 

He stood up, rapidly blinking away the brief dizziness he felt from standing up too quickly. He rummaged through his closet, putting on a long-sleeved shirt that was lengthy enough to pull over his hands, a pair of fitted jeans, and a thicker coat to wear over his thin layers to shield himself from the frigid air outside. When Jinyoung left the bathroom with a washed face and a mint-rinsed mouth, it was Mark’s turn to do the same. He stood in front of the mirror, eyes fluttering anywhere but his own reflection. His heart briskly sped up as he gripped the counter, turning on the tap as he splashed lukewarm water over his face. When he wiped his face with a clean towel, he slowly met with his own dark eyes in the glassy mirror, trailing over his tired features and his unpleasant hair (he’d shower when he’d come back later). He didn’t flinch this time, staring at himself intently, mapping out the traits that reminded him of his brother and the other qualities that made him an individual of his own person. It left an uncomfortable feeling settling in the depth of his ravenous stomach, but he quickly put it aside in his mind, and gargled the mouthwash that burnt the inside of his mouth. 

 

“You’re fine,” He whispered to himself, hands gripping his sleeves, and repeated it again, “You’re fine.” 

 

Honesty was truly a serrated thing, especially when it came to himself. 

 

\-------

 

Jinyoung brought him to a diner.

 

It was familiar. There was a recognizable ambiance about it, the way it looked so out of ordinary in comparison to the other Korean eateries, it’s flashy neon lights blinking outside of the western-styled building. After taking multiple buses and underground subways, Mark should have suspected that it would was the same diner from three years ago when he realized they were traveling to the district of where their high school was located in. 

 

The inside was warm, a welcoming heat that embraced him like the hugs his father would give him. The diner was still the same, with the black-and-white tiled floors and red leather seated booths, shiny marble countertops with waitresses in blue aprons and white shoes. The light blue walls were decorated with frames of homely pictures, of cartoony drawings of families, of abstract amalgamations of tonal colours, and landscape horizons that brought a saturated brightness to the diner. There was even a variegated jukebox in the corner, softly exuding swinging’ music that made the whole diner an amicable, approachable place to eat.

 

Once they were seated in a booth by a window, Mark used his sleeve to wipe away the vapor on the windows and felt a tug of familiarity from the view outside: there was a large body of a lonesome tree, deprived of any festive leaves sprouting its bare branches in crooked protrusions, the shiny metal parking rack for bicycles, lacquered with a frosty glaze, and the row of parking meters at the sidewalks. It stunned him with momentary recognition, wondering when he’s seen this angular view before, the background noise of old music and clinking of metal utensils melding into a buzzing hum in his ears. 

 

“Hey,” Mark jumped a bit when Jinyoung snapped his fingers at him to get his attention, “pick your choice.” 

 

Eyes lingering on the window, Mark picked up the breakfast menu and was surprised to see that the orders were written in both English and Korean, and realized that most of the meals were inspired by American victuals. He sneaked a glance up at Jinyoung who was busy glaring down at the menu as if it had wronged him in some way before he looked up and caught Mark staring.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

Mark cleared his throat, looking back down at the menu. “Yeah.” 

 

After a stone-faced waitress finished writing down their orders, she quickly brought back their drinks, settling down two cups of coffee that were prepared to their tastes, one black for Mark and the other with cream and sugar for Jinyoung. 

 

“You’ve brought me here before.” Mark said idly, staring down at the dark pool of his coffee, a thin sheen of light reflected against the aqueous surface from the warm ceiling lights. 

 

Jinyoung nodded as he brought his cup to his lips.

 

“It’s cheap. It’s good. Not exactly healthy per se, but it’s comfort food that can be enjoyable for a foreigner’s palate.” He said nonchalantly, eyes averted to the side. “This is the only place where you’ll find this kind of eatery.”

 

They fell into a complacent silence as they waited for their orders, the television hanging in the corner of the ceiling playing a sitcom that captured Jinyoung’s attention while Mark typed on his phone, answering messages he received the night before from Jackson who was supposedly worried about his wellbeing. When their plates of food had arrived, Jinyoung didn’t waste a single second as he immersed his plate of waffles in maple syrup, a cloying soppy mess that he didn’t seem to mind. Mark looked down at his own plate of stacked pancakes and fruits on the side, the sweet, warm smell entering his nose that lifted his heart a bit, reminding him of the ones his father would make back home. He let a tiny smile glide across his face, hands wrapping around the knife and fork although he made no movement to cut. 

 

“Why did you take me here before?” Mark asked, watching as Jinyoung wiped his mouth with a napkin. 

 

“You were being stupid.” Jinyoung said, not looking up from his food as he continued eating. “Anybody could’ve noticed that you starved because you lost your job at the time.”

 

Time seemed to have slowed down for a moment as he let those words sink in. “What?” 

 

The memory of that was hazy, but he could still remember the humiliation hovering around him from how he was fired because of his incompetency in the country’s native language, how his Korean at the time was still ineffectual and he could barely understand any words spoken to him. The customers he dealt with weren’t the best since he worked in convenience store near a shady neighborhood, and his lack of understanding always unintentionally managed to cause problems that left his manager in a trembling state of frustration. It was only a matter of time before his manager was finally fed up and ended up kicking him to the curb, and how even though he earned a regular shit pay from that job, it gave him access to sustainable food and necessities. When he lost it, the budget he restricted himself to for food only had plummeted rather quickly that left him roaming around for any employment he could find. 

 

Jinyoung shrugged. “It’s a good thing that old man Seung-hyun hired you after that, right?”

 

Mark stared at him, speechless, as his mind wandered back to the familiar figure of a quinquagenarian who owned a coffee shop and had hired him without the need for an interview. It had been weird when he’d gotten a phone call from a place he didn’t remember applying for, but he was grateful that he was given a job anyways. He worked as a busboy and a cleaning attendant, positions that didn’t require him to talk to customers, and the elderly owner didn’t seem to mind that he couldn’t speak his language fluently, always smiling softly and giving him free treats. He remembered how sad he had looked when Mark had told him that he was leaving, and the strength he still had in his spindly hands when he had enveloped Mark’s own, sending him off with a proud but sorrowful glint in his eyes. As the vagueness of his words worked its way through the cogs of his brain, his eyes widened in realization and his mouth opened.

 

“You--” Mark began in disbelief, “How did you--why--” 

 

“You should really eat that.” Jinyoung interrupted him, using his fork to point at his plate of untouched food. “It won’t taste as good if it’s cold.” 

 

Mark shut his mouth, eyebrows furrowing in consternation as he slowly used his knife to cut his pancakes into smaller pieces, thoughts swirling in his mind in both incredulity and confusion. He couldn’t understand him-- couldn’t understand his actions in both the past and in the present. 

 

He ate his food silently, the pancakes now tepid but still pleasantly soft and sweet to his palate, the realization settling deep into his mind. He felt odd from that disclosure, something he didn’t ever expect from Jinyoung at that time, because no matter how much Jinyoung wouldn’t verbally admit to it on his own volition, he had _helped_ him. That deeply hidden kindness he secretly adhered was shown in front of Mark once again. His eyes caught the tightness in Jinyoung’s shoulders, the way he grinded his food harshly as he kept his dark eyes down. Mark knew how much people perceived generosity as a sign of weakness--knew that even though Jinyoung was a different person, remnants of his past self was still embedded in the core of his character.

 

“Thank you.” Mark said quietly, watching as Jinyoung stopped mid-movement and looked up. _For the food. For the job. For yesterday_ , things he didn’t need to say but was conveyed audibly through his voice. Jinyoung had immediately understood, because his mouth was set into a tight line and his solemn eyes were faltering from that sudden show of gratitude. He looked as though he wanted to say something, with the way his mouth kept twitching, but he settled on keeping quiet, and so the both of them did. 

 

\------

 

When they exited the diner, it was already half past eight in the morning. The wind nipped at his skin and he shuddered from the exposure of the cold. His shoulders hunched involuntarily as they stood outside of the diner, watching as early risers walked by and cars whir past in a blurry succession. It was always the coldest when the sun was out. Mark turned to look at Jinyoung, watching him as the high points of his pale skin turn red from the frigidity of the weather.

 

“Hey.” Mark found himself saying.

 

Jinyoung reciprocated the eye contact, raising an eyebrow. Mark couldn’t, though, so his eyes flitted towards the ground and he let out a deep breath, a puff of smoke exhaling from his mouth. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Mark watched as a customer opened the door of the diner to leave, glancing at them for a brief second before he went to his red-coloured Porsche. “For hurting you.”

 

Jinyoung tensed, but he didn’t say anything, so Mark continued. 

 

“I promised to stay loyal to you but I broke that promise, and I understand why you’d hate me. I was your friend.” He felt the familiar tightness in his chest coiling around his throat, “I hate myself too, for a lot of things.” He didn’t see the way Jinyoung clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. “Maybe I should have apologized earlier. I don’t know why I didn’t until now.”

 

“Do you regret it?” 

 

Mark didn’t need to think about his answer, because it’d never change. “No. I don’t.”

 

Jinyoung took a sharp intake of breath, fists still clenched. His expression was steely, but soft around the edges. The sun seemed to illuminate the coldness in his features and the way it seemed to have melted into something unfamiliar, into something warmer. Something unreachable.

 

“Then that’s fine.” 

 

Puzzled, Mark wondered if he had heard wrong. “What?” Mark gnawed at his lower lip out of agitation and bewilderment, unable to fathom how Jinyoung could react so calmly at that, taking it in stride as if it was an answer he had expected and wanted nothing else more. Not even an explanation. 

 

“I was angry. I was always an angry person. Then again, we weren’t close enough at all to be called best friends, but I thought so anyways.” Jinyoung’s eyes narrowed, as if he had wanted to say something else but had stopped himself from doing so. He ran a hand over his knuckles marred of past fights, his voice tight, “You did hurt me, but-- I hurt you more, right?” 

 

Mark let those words register, nonplussed. 

 

“I wasn’t a good person, that you already know. And maybe I still am. I don’t know. I mean, who would’ve believed a fuck-up like me could end up this far? I don’t blame you for believing that I’d be in prison. I thought so too.” His lips curled into a bitter smile, letting out a hollow laugh that made Mark look down as he bit the inside of his cheek. “Like I said before, you’re easy to read.”

 

“That’s not much of an excuse, though. It’s just a fact.” He looked as though the words he wanted to say were lodged behind a wall of resistance, unable to be properly conveyed as if they were an alien language. There was a choked silence, how he opened his mouth and closed it like litanies with words reluctant to come out, as if his immediate reflex was to keep it buried in quicksand. He gritted his teeth, eyebrows perpetually knitted together in consternation. 

 

Then, he finally let his eyes fall, exhaling a deep, heavy breath, “And I’m sorry.”

 

That was the most honest and open they’ve been with each other, but there would always be mightily more left inside than what comes out in spoken words. Mark felt as though his ears had betrayed him, that this was merely a fabrication of his sleep deprived mind, but it wasn’t, as he stared at him. He let the apology he heard sink into the pores of his skin, into the crevices of his mind, looking at Jinyoung's side profile and the way his shoulders were finally relieved of tension, his fists unclenching but restless, his usual solemnity morphed into something sincere.

 

Mark found himself floundering. “I don't hate you, you know, even after what happened.” He said quietly, “I’m not mad. I don't think I ever was in the first place.”

 

“That's because you don’t have a mean bone in your body and I can’t tell if that’s even worse than breaking my trust.” He said with a halfhearted, ponderous glower.

 

This was something he hadn’t expected, how the anger that had resurfaced in Jinyoung in the forefront of their reunion had slowly waned into another emotion that would have surely been dormant in his past self. He looked tired as well, as if honing the hatred he had stored beneath his solemnity had consumed too much of his energy, of the spirit he couldn’t express to others so easily, and that it was futile to hold onto something that nobody could change anymore. But there was something else that was unreadable in his expression, and Mark couldn’t discern what it was. There were enigmatic facets to his character that Mark has yet to understand, like a puzzle, something he couldn’t quite piece together yet but was getting close to. 

 

Jinyoung had apologized, even if it seemed as though it brought him pain from the unfamiliarity of the action. Junior wouldn’t have done that at all, because just like how he had perceived kindness was weak, he perceived apologies as a sign of weakness as well. He wouldn’t have even spared him a glance without bringing a fist to his face first. It was stupefying to see the parallels, how much three years could change a person. He didn’t know what gargantuan event could have compelled him to change as well, brimming curiosity swirling in his head as Mark tried to ignore the burst of envy bloom across his chest to see such a form of redemption, something he couldn’t have because he left a hole in his dreams for self-pity instead of success. It was true, that there were some people you’ll never see again, at least not in the same way.

Forgiving someone was like healing a wound of your own, but forgiving yourself was difficult--hard, like trying to rebuild yourself piece by piece with no instructions as to where all the important bits are supposed to go. Mark wasn't on that path yet, of self-forgiveness and inner peace, and maybe it'll take forever until he could look in the mirror without being reminded of his brother's ghost, but as they looked at each other until it felt like everything around them would burst into flames, that the sky would fall and that the infinite space would swallow them up whole, Mark felt strong. Not strong enough to face himself, but strong enough to keep going until he'd find that path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing in jy's perspective was harder than I thought so I ended up not doing it. orz but i'm planning to in the future when I have time!  
> also, i'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter as well. what do you guys think?  
> Once again, thank you for reading!


	8. harbinger of wintry sorrow (part ii)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like I said before, jy's perspective is hard to write (at least to me in this kind of plot), which is why it's shorter than the other chapters lol. Hopefully it's okay! so this is his pov after chapter 6.  
> also, I'm sorry for a very late update! I've been busy but my winter break just started, so hopefully i'll be able to get more chapters down in time and get my writer's block out of the way!  
> thank you all for reading once again!
> 
> t/w: domestic abuse; mentions of self-harm.

“ _Oh, no, I have never feared dead bodies, just as broken, shattered playthings do not frighten me. What I feared, all alone in a treacherous world of reflections, was to break down instead of holding on till a certain extraordinary, madly happy, all-solving moment which it was imperative I should attain; the moment of an artist’s triumph; of pride, deliverance, bliss: was my picture a sensational success or was it a dismal flop?_ ” 

The rustling of pages was like a gentle hum of a wordless lullaby, as plaintive as the moon’s demure glow. The monotonous cadence of a clock palpitated along with his complacent heartbeat, the resonance of somnolent breaths carrying through his ears. The cup of tea was no longer steaming, now lukewarm and lacquered with dregs that kept afloat to the surface. His body seemed to have gotten used to the cold, only involuntarily jerking from time to time from the piercing frigidity that compelled him to shudder. He could see the veins in his hands--tinted with purple, he noticed, from how cold it was. 

He bookmarked the page he was on in _Despair_ and placed it aside on the floor, throwing a glance towards Mark and his sleeping figure. He looked at peace when he slept. Jinyoung couldn’t see the grave, vacant orbs of his eyes ringed with lugubriosity and dark circles, and his tense features that strained in persistent consternation had smoothed out into a soft canvas of serenity and peace, disconnected from the heaviness of his heart. He was a mystery. 

Mark Tuan had always been a mystery to Park Jinyoung. 

Jinyoung removed his coat away from his lap and quietly stood up, stepping around the cup of tea to maneuver around the small apartment. The decor was minimalistic and simple, but it didn’t embody any homely warmth. There were no hanging picture frames or portraits of his family or his home town. There was nothing personal or intimate, just grey spaces and a piercing coldness that hung betwixt the somber atmosphere. It was an ambience Jinyoung was all too familiar with. 

He wandered towards the bathroom, stepping over the threshold as he closed the door behind him lightly. He turned on the lights, greeted by the yellow luminance and his reflection from the mirror that wasn’t quite clear, speckled with little dots and smudges. He could still see his face, though, the way solemnity carved his features sharply and how his own sable eyes were surrounded by dark circles that displayed his own silhouette of fatigue. He looked cold, but in the end, he chose stoicism over antagonism. It was better than a scowl satiated with passionate enmity.

He looked down at the row of three cabinets on one side with a bigger cabinet on the other side that was underneath the porcelain sink, and proceeded to pull each open: the first cupboard stored nothing but a box of q-tips and medicinal balms that had a pungent smell of peppermint. The second cupboard had unopened boxes of toothpastes and toothbrushes, and the last cabinet he had to crouch down to reach had a compacted first aid kit. He pulled open the bigger cabinet on the side that revealed the complex installation of pipes that connected to the sink, as well as a large bottle of soap, a tub of bathroom bleach used for cleaning, a pair of rubber gloves and other cleaning materials as he searched around meticulously and carefully. Finding nothing, he closed it and stood back up. There were no signs of blades or other dangerously sharp things that were being hidden in the bathroom, at least, not in his sight, but it was enough to relieve him of the nagging feeling of anticipation and--something else he couldn’t quite decipher. 

He closed the light and left the bathroom, trudging back towards where his things were. It was late, and he wanted to go back to his dorm before the sky could get any darker. As he packed away his things, he slanted a glance towards where Mark was still asleep, his head tilted in what seemed to be an uncomfortable position. Perhaps Jinyoung should leave right then, right now, leave him before he could wake up, but he found himself in a plight, something compelling him to stay instead. 

It was infuriating, actually, meeting him so unexpectedly. The first time he had saw him, he immediately recognized the tufts of brown hair and the demure movements, his quiet disposition and silent steps that left him easily unnoticed, blending into the distorted blank haze of the background, but never in Jinyoung’s line of sight. He’s read a multitude of books, studied and analyzed literature, wrote essays and short stories with fluidity and a distinctive flair of brevity, but to describe what he felt at that moment--he couldn’t put it into words, no matter how many flowery words he knew. He just _couldn’t_ and it left him unsettled. It stirred a mixture of feelings he couldn’t discern one by one, a fluttering of indignation and jade and bitterness the next, before something else he couldn’t pinpoint afterwards. It left him confused and frustrated and angry. He hated uncertainty, and he hated it the most when it came to himself. He wondered if his heart was listening--if it knew that they were at war with each other. 

His gaze trailed down towards his arms, and he could see the jagged thin bumps that marked his milky skin. He could see it clearly now to realize that they weren’t fresh. They seemed old, like the act had been made years ago, hidden beneath long sleeves during a humid summer. Jinyoung glanced down at his own fists, tracing the faint scars that were still visible over the grooves of his knuckles. In a way, maybe they were similar. He had frustrations and aggravations that he hadn’t known how to express properly. His pride inhibited him, shackled him in chains that restrained him and mangled him into a mayhem of unresolved anger. His hands were molded into daggers to hit, snapping and breaking from saturnine force, but he kept on pummelling until the anger was drained and replaced with a searing pain to divert his concentration away from his inferiority. So, he hurt others in order to hurt himself. 

Mark would always be there afterwards to patch the injuries, so perhaps that was the thing that would always set them apart from each other: Mark used his hands to mend and Jinyoung used his hands for none other than destruction. 

“What a tragedy,” He dropped his bag back down onto the ground as he quietly stepped towards Mark, the uncomfortable position his head was in irritating him, “to think so much of the world, yet so little of yourself.” 

His hands hovered above Mark’s arms, wondering how he could do this without waking him, without invading his space. He was careful not to touch his bare skin as he slid his hand underneath Mark’s knees and the other around his waist, hoisting him up in stilted surprise at how light he was. He carried him to his bed and gently laid him down, making sure that his head hit the pillow before he pulled the blankets over his shoulders. Mark had stirred in his sleep, but fortunately enough, it had not woken him up. 

(Something flared in his chest and he had to fight to keep it underneath the surface.)

Jinyoung grabbed his things and the cup of tea and relocated himself to where the bookshelf was. He had told himself--told Mark blatantly as well that he won’t give him his trust again, but what was he doing, showing up at his apartment? Even he didn’t have an answer to that. He was being impetuous and acting without thought, but he still remembers--he remembers that Mark didn't like being left alone on this particular day. For what reason, Jinyoung didn't know, but that was all he knew and his body had reacted on its own when he had asked Jackson for his address.

As they’ve progressed and answers were being exchanged, he’s realized that the hostility and the spite he had initially felt towards the whole situation was slowly fading away. The implicit understanding between them was still ever-present, the way that their eyes shared the truth that was too bitter for their mouths to taste and utter. 

He’s realized that being angry wasn’t worth it, that keeping a useless grudge was simply tiresome.

Above all, he’s realized that forgiveness was like taking the knife out of your own back and not using it to hurt anyone else no matter how they hurt you. 

(What was it like to forgive himself, then?)

 

He didn’t want to leave this place, not yet, because this place reminded him that no matter how much destruction he had caused with these hands of his, he was still capable of handling things and people with a faraway gentleness, that he had handled someone with cautious sensitivity, that he wasn’t all like his father and that he was unlearning all the things he had learned from him as a youth. His father destroyed the most in their lives. He was the first one to destroy his trust as well, to the point where it became too difficult to rebuild. 

That was because violence had always been a secondhand heirloom in his family. 

Jinyoung closed his eyes. 

It was a foreboding presence in his childhood, how he would incessantly be reminded that his fists would inherit the uncanny flare of greed for destruction, mirroring his deadbeat father who could only muster a dipsomaniac’s dysfunctionality and disregard of all familial awareness. How his mother, a small woman with brittle bones and hands who could still be so warm in such a cold house, could still hold him so gently and lull him to sleep with a tear-stained face. How his mother, the same petite woman who gave him sweet kisses on the forehead when his father wasn’t looking, had told him that he would never amount to anything, just like his useless father, as his youthful jubilance withered into a puddle of misdirected spite that receded back into its rightful stagnation. It was a reality he had mutely accepted. It was a burden that he would carry around on his shoulders for a lifetime like Atlas had carried the world. 

Jinyoung remembers; a childhood that taught him toxic masculinity and influenced him that hurting people was accepted was something he couldn’t simply forget. It was integrated into the social construct he followed. He become a person everyone told him he would grow up to be. He was allowed to passionately hate, to instigate an onslaught of fist fights and near death experiences. Most of all, he was allowed to hate himself the most, and so he hated the whole world too. 

Jinyoung remembers; his father’s lethal claws that struck him across the face when he was eight, burning the ugly truth onto his left cheek. His calloused hands that caught his throat and held it tight when he was twelve, closed firmly, how he couldn’t swallow past puffy, swollen finger marks around his neck afterwards, tasting blood and the metallic tang that crusted his gums. His intoxicated impatience as he threw him against the wall when he was fifteen, knocking the wind out of him as he slumped to the floor, how all he could hear was the throbbing quicksand in his ears. The feeling of anger, of patheticness, of inferiority and the urge to prove his strength pulsated throughout his whole body, simmering in his veins, his fists trembling.

And most of all, he remembers seeing his father being handcuffed when he was seventeen, watching as the authorities forcefully dragged the struggling bastard out of the slovenly house, shards of glass scattered around the kitchen floor as he felt something wet and sticky and oddly warm drip down his face, his consciousness waning and flickering while his mother’s distant voice echoed at the back of his head---

 _“Don’t be like your father.”_

Sometimes he’d see his father look back at him in the mirror. 

(Empty but full of chaos.)

At the end of most days, he had to remind himself that he wasn’t his father. He was about to be, but he didn’t. He chose not to submit underneath his family’s tradition. 

“I am what survives of me,” He whispered to himself, the words dispersing into the quiet room, the humming of chatter resonating from next door and the soft thumps of footsteps from the ceiling resounding against the malleable walls. He opened his eyes again, relaxing his tight grip around the cup he didn’t know he had been holding so rigidly. He brought the cup to his lips and drank all of the tea until there wasn’t a drop left, as if he could he drink all the unexpressed emotions back down to where they could be rightfully hidden. He placed it on the floor afterwards, eyes glinting up at the rows of books. He ran his hand gently across the spines of the books, his eyes recognizing most of the titles, before he was drawn to a thin novel full of poems: _The Wild Iris_ by Louise Glück. He took it out of its placement and flipped leisurely through the pages, stopping at a particular point where a passage had caught his eye.

“ _I don’t need your praise to survive._  
I was here first, before you were here, before  
you ever planted a garden.  
And I’ll be here when only the sun and moon  
are left, and the sea, and the wide field. 

_I will constitute the field._ ”

He flipped to the next page, the poem titled “End of Winter”.

“ _Over the still world, a bird calls_  
waking solitary among black boughs.

_You wanted to be born; I let you be born._  
When has my grief ever gotten  
in the way of your pleasure? 

_Plunging ahead_  
into the dark and light at the same time  
eager for sensation 

_as though you were some new thing, wanting  
to express yourselves_

_all brilliance, all vivacity_  
never thinking  
this would cost you anything,  
never imagining the sound of my voice  
as anything but part of you— 

_you won’t hear it in the other world,_  
not clearly again,  
not in birdcall or human cry, 

_not the clear sound, only_  
persistent echoing  
in all sound that means good-bye, good-bye—” 

He closed it and put it back into its rightful spot. He sat back down and rested his head against the side of shelf, eyes engrossed at the ceiling and the fissures of lines that weaved from corner to corner, like a spider’s web. He felt the approach of sleep tug at his eyelids. 

“ _\---the one continuous line_  
that binds us to each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend The Wild Iris! It's so, so beautiful.  
> (and i'm sorry for such a crappy ending to this chapter. orz)


	9. let's hope a little bit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a double update! go back to the previous chapter! 
> 
> i know it's been very introspective lately with lots of internal monologue, but I just wanted to focus on their individual development before their relationship can start growing. I hope you can notice the little changes.  
> btw i didn't want to use one of mark's actual siblings so I just chose a random name. 
> 
> t/w: mentions of panic attacks (i sincerely apologize if they weren't depicted accurately!!) and brief mentions of suicide.  
> also, if i'm ever missing a warning, please feel free to tell me so i can quickly edit and put it in the warnings!

_Rain drenched his black clothes that clinged to his body, dewy droplets dripping from the strands of his hair. The smell of petrichor entered his lungs. The sky was a platinum grey, engulfed by the thick tufts of dark clouds that bestowed upon them the appropriate atmosphere of dolorous grief. Emptiness burrowed in the deep chambers of his heart. He felt nothing but numbness as they let his father down into the miry ground. He felt nothing but vacancy, even as he stood there all alone when everyone else left, letting the rain permeate him down to the bone. He did not shed a single tear, therefore infuriating those around him, including his mother. They thought he was heartless, but his brother understood._

_He heard the squash of soppy grass behind him._

_“Hey, Markie.” His brother’s soft voice melding into the pellets of rain. “Let’s go back home. You’ll catch a cold like that.”_

_“Home?” Mark muttered, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Mom can’t even stand the sight of me anymore.”_

_“She’s grieving.”_

_“Has she been grieving for the past 14 years, then?” Mark let the weight of words fall and suddenly, he felt a current of pain crash into the wall of his chest. “She’s detested me ever since I was born. She never even looked at me properly, let alone in the eye. If you call this grieving, what has she been doing all this time?”_

_“Mark…” His brother placed a hand on his shoulder with a weary look. “Don’t do this now. This isn’t the right time.”_

_Mark could feel anger bubbling up inside of him as he clenched his fists tightly, shaking and trembling and teeth gritting. He felt goosebumps rise on every part of his body, rushing to bury every raw emotion back down beneath the surface, chains clasping around the lock. There was never a right time to address his mother’s neglect and cold attitude towards him. Anyone could see the sheer disappointment in her eyes whenever Mark was mentioned, or if he was a tangible presence in her peripheral vision. Everything was swept under the mat regarding him. He was unimportant--a superfluous_ thing _that roamed around in her household like a ghost, forgotten like a ring of dust underneath a vase that had yet to be wiped clean of. He’s become used to it now, but there was something about today that made him teeter back and forth against the edge of explosion. However, just like he always did, he twisted those emotions into a narrow cascading current down back into the deep-seated depths of his heart, locking it away, bottling it up to leave it to drift across a vast sea of unattainable breadth and unreachable expressivity._

_“Then leave me alone, Matthew.” Mark sadly said, the fight diminished from his voice. “I don’t want to go back home and face her. Not yet.”_

_“She doesn’t blame you.” His voice was tender but stern, full of conviction. “You know she doesn’t.”_

_“I know.” Mark couldn’t hear his own voice amidst the pouring rain. “But she’ll find an excuse to.”_

 

The first thing Mark noticed when he awoke with a jerk was that his face was pressed against something cold. His eyes fluttered open, blinking away the aqueous film before he realized that they were tears, rolling down his cheeks in wet tracks. It left him startled. When was the last time he had cried? He couldn’t remember. It’s been such a long time since he’s left himself vulnerable enough to let tears fall. 

He finally became aware that he lying down on his bathroom floor, the tiled floor icy and jarringly frigid to his shivering skin, the dim light still on. He was facing the cabinet underneath the sink, blinking away the droplets of tears before he rubbed at his eyes with the ends of his sleeves. Numbness still hovered around the ends of his skin, pins and needles lingering amidst the stiffness of his bones. He could hear the thumping of his heartbeat droning in his ears, his hand pressed over his mouth as he breathed in deeply through his nose. It felt good to breathe properly again, to rejuvenate his lungs with proper air without feeling as though he was choking and drowning in invisible water. He was trembling, the feeling of dread and anticipatory fear churning in the pits of his stomach, his heart lurching and fingers twitching. 

“Shit,” He cursed, his mind groggy. After a moment of calming down, he tried to remember what happened: they went their separate ways after they finished eating together. From the unexpected softness and honesty that had been shared between them--it was astonishing at first, unfamiliar and even peculiar, but it left him feeling lighter than before as he walked back home. Everything had been fine. He had been fine, but then this overwhelming sensation took grasp of him, like he was being snatched away from his momentary placidity and left open for ghosts to finish what they started. That sense of dastardly awareness sent shivers down his spine as he struggled to climb up the stairs of his apartment building with pains shooting down his legs and heart pounding so loudly he thought it would shoot out from his chest. He remembers collapsing in his bathroom, feeling wave after wave of fear in his stomach as it gave out on him, and he couldn’t catch his breath, desperately clawing at chest to just _breathe, breathe, breathe_. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, an inexplicable terror encircling him into a darkness that smothered him until that was all he could see, and for a brief second, he thought he was truly dying. Then he woke up here again. 

Mark pulled his knees to his chest, hugging them as he rested his forehead on them. Panic attacks came upon him by surprise, but rarely did he experience them. The aftermath of his brother’s suicide and the image of Mark finding him in the bathtub floating in his own blood, forever graved into the interstices of his brain, was a point in his life where he first experienced them when the sight of a mere bathtub sent him down into a full state of panic, but he became desensitized to the unwarranted poltergeist of death as years passed by and he grew older and emptier. 

He didn’t always think of his brother, and when he did, Mark didn’t always become a trembling, anxious mess at the thought of him. It made him depressed, but not enough to provoke an attack. Still, the feeling was unpredictable. There were times he’d wake up in a full blown panic attack with a heavy chest as he felt the wind knocked out of him by some intangible force of trepidation. There were times, like yesterday--the day his brother took his own life--where he’d become too sensitive of his surroundings, associating things with his brother when they didn’t correlate to him at all, that would leave him breathless and panicky and restless and miserable, but otherwise, he’d stay dormant and spiritless. The murky thoughts would slowly diminish as days pass and the anniversary of his brother’s death would become farther and farther away, but today was different.  
Today he wasn’t alone left to scourge through the darkness of his mind, and he was distracted from the grief that hadn’t fully let go of him yet. The transitory complacency was nice, even if he ended up having an uncalled-for emotional nightmare afterwards. It must have been the pent up stress and distress, reminding him that he can’t, after all, have nice things.

They were inexplicable. Incomprehensible. Erratic. He could never tell when he’d have one. The slightest reminder could cause him the tiniest amount of discomfort, but nothing he couldn’t easily handle. It all varied in nature and he couldn’t explain it, but he’d learned how to control himself, learned how to bring himself out of the dark hole and back to reality, even if it meant inflicting pain upon himself to stay grounded. He’s dealt with this by himself all this time, and he’ll continue to. 

He sat there, his thoughts a flatline, his mind wandering around mirthlessly until he found himself thinking about what happened earlier in the day, a memory that stirred a blurry cloud of emotions and a bit of warmth to distract him from the dreariness of his state. He could see Jinyoung’s sullen smirk, words weaved with a heavy conveyance of bitter reality, and Mark suddenly felt guilt cling to him, fluttering in the plexus of his stomach that tangled with dread and anxiety. Mark knew in the back of his head that Jinyoung was a clever individual--always has been, more than what people scrutinized him to be with their senseless judgment. Jinyoung never acknowledged it back because he believed in what everybody else believed in: that he was a nobody-- that he would end up perishing and disintegrating in a cruddy cell that would mark the insignificance of his existence, the epoch of a useless entity’s death, and somehow, Mark was caught up in that slipstream of conventional belief. Then again, that was the same thing with Mark, wasn’t it? Everyone believed in the worst of him, and now, he did too. It was an irreversible thing and a rather sad and ironic element they shared in common. 

_“And I’m sorry.”_

Those three words echoed in his mind, a vibrant resonance that was as clear as a pond reflecting against the spring’s effulgent sun. The bitterness and spite that had been apparent in his tone and in his countenance had softened into a look of solemn honesty, genuinely susceptible in order to convey his arduous apology. How such a locution of simplicity could cause his heart to beat in erratic stutters, at the fact that an apology had been enunciated so carefully and tenderly to him when he remembers that _Junior never apologizes no matter what_. It was so, so strange; he would keep repeating such an utterance because it truly was strange-- how they’ve gone from distancing themselves so ardently to now an inexplicable, unnameable state of arbitrary placidity--almost like an unsettled truce of some sort, a kind of force that pulled them together to keep on asking and answering and just to merely _talk_. 

It’s been said that it was easier to forgive enemies than friends, but they were neither enemies nor friends. They were somewhere in between, where trust was reluctant to be given with a hesitancy of confiding but a mutual understanding, a sort of connection that tethered them together. Maybe Mark forgave easily, but this time, it felt more genuine--more _personally_ genuine, to rephrase. 

_And are you still an angry person?_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“I wasn’t a good person, that you already know. And maybe I still am.”_

Anger being directed towards others was a rarity, an emotion he only further repressed and buried underneath his other issues, something he only perpetually felt towards himself because it was so much safer not to feel and not to let the world touch him. The mean bone in his body hadn’t been beaten out of him from that night--it had already been beaten out of him ever since the beginning he was brought into life. Before he could even learn how to spell his own name, he knew what he was in that household--what he was _worth_ , and he’s learned to grown accustomed to such a bleak reality, and the fight was easily drained from him just like the magnitude of his emotions. He was conditioned to be this way, how he was seen as the family’s black sheep, the only son that would never rise up to the expectations his brother had been bombarded with--to lead a successful life, to earn exceptional monies, to be the breadwinner and the prosperous husband. How he was seen as the failure, the disappointment who didn’t deserve the familial love and support, how his father was dragged in between a plight of either loving him or siding with his wife whom he loved even more, and his brother, who remained in the grey side of making his parents incredibly proud while comforting his fucked-up younger brother.

(He lost count at how many times he reminded himself that he was okay with that. In fact, he wasn’t okay with it, but rather used to it to the point of disregarding himself.) 

But when was the last time Mark’s heart had stuttered, an additional beat pulsating with light fervency--his mind an amalgamation of confusion and agitation and spurns of unfathomable emotions he didn’t know what was stirring in his chest? It was strange how Jinyoung was able to make him feel this way, to make him feel a little less empty with a more stimulated heart and a rapidly spurning pivot of thoughts cycling in his head. How his presence could make him feel a little less lonely, make him feel calmer and away from the dismal extent of his thoughts. Was this supposed to happen? He told himself that they weren’t going to ever be friends again, and that perhaps he didn’t even want to, that everything was purely coincidental, but why was his body and mind contradicting each other now? But that was the thing. The brain doesn’t have a heart nor does the heart have a brain. 

(Junior wouldn’t have ever admitted his shortcomings like that.) 

Mark had to continue to remind himself that he wasn’t Junior. He was-- _is_ Jinyoung. He is not who he was three years ago, two years ago, one year ago, a week ago, nor a day ago. He is not who he was in the past anymore. To ask him to become the person he once was is like asking him to disregard all the things he has learned in his journey to change. Mark couldn’t do that. He won’t. 

With his focus on Jinyoung, he’s become aware of how the spiraling thoughts of their uncanny ‘acquaintanceship’ brought his mind to a safer place, where he finally regained his normal breath and the anticipatory palpitations came to a cessation and his heart was a calm inflection. The encirclement of dread was still there, grasping at him with needy tendrils that wrapped around his body, but it became bearable enough for him to go through another day, to put on the mask of a mild-mannered employee. 

It felt like it had been hours as Mark fished out his cellphone from his jeans and checked the time. He only had an hour and a half before his shift started. The question came to mind: could he still work? He was emotionally battered, but physically, he was still okay. (He ignored the wobbliness and trembling of his limbs.) He’s learned to separate his personal life from his work life. No one wanted him to bring his emotional baggage with him when he was handling customers. He’d get fired instantly. 

Mark shook the last residues of dizziness and the last thoughts of Jinyoung away from his head. _He was okay._ Feeling groggy, he used the counter of the sink as leverage to pull himself up, legs still wobbly but stable enough to stand. He slowly raised his head to look at himself in the mirror, studying his swollen, red-rimmed eyes that had a glassy sheen but otherwise a hollow ring to it. To put it tersely, he looked like complete shit. He despised the lifeless undertone to his complexion--had he always been this pale? He remembers the tan he had when he was younger and the freckles that had manifested from the glowing rays of sunshine imprinting on his skin. It looked as though he was embodying the imminence of death, the epitome of a dire need of peace. Remnants of his brother were slowly fading away, and looking at his own reflection became tolerable now, although he couldn’t stop the spasm of disquietude churning in his gut. 

He tore his gaze away and went to get reluctantly ready for work. He was drained of every pint of energy and the last thing he wanted to do was interact with customers, even if it may be succinct and minimum. However, he’d rather have something to do to distract himself than to re-immerse himself back into his unpleasant thoughts by staying home for another day. With that, he quickly stripped down his clothes, taking a long, cold shower that pierced his skin and made him feel more awake, and scrubbed at his scalp as he washed his hair. He ruffled his hair dry with a towel before he dressed himself in clean clothes afterwards, and gave his teeth a proper brush and his face a proper wash. It was a dull, perfunctory routine. 

As he put on a thicker coat and grabbed his belongings, he remembered to grab a scarf on the way out too. 

\------

Jackson seemed to have relented from bombarding him with questions today, which was probably because he sensed Mark’s somber and jaded disposition. Mark thought it was strange since Jackson never noticed Mark’s initial emotional well being before, but he appreciated his concern that seemed wholeheartedly genuine. 

“Hey, man. How are you doing?” Jackson asked with a vibrant smile as he leaned against the counter when Mark came out of the staff room, putting on the store’s green apron and fastening a knot behind him. The bookstore was empty as usual on a early noon weekday, save for an old man who was seated down and was reading (Mark had to squint) what seemed to be an article on encephalitis. 

“I’m doing fine,” Mark replied, “thanks. You?” 

“Miserable. I’ve got, like, a major assignment due in a week. I’m barely half done.” Jackson groaned, letting out an anguished sigh. “And also because I’m post-stressing. Dude, does anyone ever tell you’re a slow texter?” 

“Sorry.” Mark sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, “I was… preoccupied last night, and I couldn’t return your text messages until today.” 

“Yeah, at _six_ in the goddamn morning. I assume you were preoccupied with Jinyoung?” Jackson asked curiously, eyes bugged out in a nosy manner, but his face quickly warped into guilt and he reclined back with another miserable groan. “Oh, wait, I’m actually really sorry about that. You probably didn’t want outsiders giving away your address, but he seemed really serious about it, and worried. Plus, he’s your old high school buddy and all, and you two seemed closer with each other lately, so I thought that if he knew, it was okay.” 

Mark didn’t believe what he heard at first, that the interactions they sustained in the eyes of a spectator could be seen as close, that Jinyoung had been described as _worried_ in that moment. “It’s okay, Jackson. I’m not mad. But--thank you for your concern for me, nonetheless. I know that you had good intentions.” 

“Of course,” Jackson broke into a large, relieved grin, equivalent to that of a sunshine amidst a summer day, “that’s what friends are for, right?” 

Jackson’s grin turned into a frown, his eyebrows raised in befuddlement and crestfallen disappointment. “We _are_ friends, right?” 

Mark hadn’t realized he had been staring with widened eyes but otherwise a blank expression, and he quickly snapped out of it and nodded slowly. 

“Right.” Mark muttered, fingers twiddling with the hem of his apron. It’s been a long time since he’s been associated with such a thing. Mark has never been great with people, and because of his quiet, distant character and his reluctance to open up so fast, people usually gave up on him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude or anything. I’m just surprised that you see me as one, if that makes any sense.” 

Now, his expression turned into puzzlement. “What? Then what have you been seeing _me_ as?” 

“A co-worker?” 

“A co-worker doesn’t drag you along to a night of hot pot with his close friends and pelt you with messages worried for your well being, Mark.” Jackson laughed, but it was a bright laugh, as though this revelation had amused him. “How you bring me such sadness, Mark! Of course I see you as a friend of mine, man! You’re crazy! I mean, I’d hate it if you think this was out of pity or something, you know? Sometimes I kind of get that vibe from you, but seriously, it’s not out of pity or anything like that. I genuinely think you’re a cool dude and I genuinely think you’re my friend.” He hopped onto the stool behind the counter to take a seat, swinging his legs around. “JB likes you too. _I_ should be surprised that you thought that way.” 

Mark’s shoulders felt a little lighter. He didn’t know that he had found relief in his words, that in realization, he _had_ been seeing Jackson’s friendly gestures as pity. Mark had never been a sociable person--the complete opposite of his brother--and that meant that he had a hard time making actual friends. He remembers spending his lunch hour all alone in his elementary school, skipping school events because he didn’t have anyone close enough to go with in middle school, and hiding within the shadows in high school to avoid the spotlight. He did make friends, but they were transitory corporeal beings that looked at him with upturned eyes and fake smiles, and never made an effort to keep him as one. They only drifted apart from him, finding someone more fitful and interesting to associate with. The only close friend he had was BamBam, but they haven’t spoken a word to each other since a couple months ago. It was only a matter of time before that friendship went down the gutter. 

He didn’t know if he deserved Jackson’s wholehearted belief in their establishment of friendship that Mark hadn’t been aware of. He didn’t want to be thrown away like he had always been because of his withdrawn personality. 

“Sorry.” Mark couldn’t help apologizing either way. “It’s just--let’s just say that I’m the complete opposite of you. I don’t make friends that easily.” He offered a tiny, demure smile as he looked down at the counter. “So it’s just surprising that I’m interesting enough to be seen as one. I’m just not used to it, but really, I’m glad to hear that.” 

“Mark, you may be quiet, but when you do speak, everything that comes out of your mouth is interesting. And quiet people have the loudest minds, don’t they? Sometimes you don’t know if they’re daydreaming or they’re carrying the weight of the world.” Jackson shrugged, eyes thoughtfully flitted towards the ceiling. “For me, what’s the point of knowing so many people if you can’t love a single one of them? It’s easy to feel lonely in a crowd of people you call your friends, but in reality, they don’t know you for you at all. They want the fun and not the depth of the companionship. That’s why I’m just content with maintaining a few close friends, you know, like JB. And you.” He grinned, hitting Mark lightly in the arm in a playful manner. 

_“Everything that comes of your mouth is interesting.”_

How odd. Nobody’s said that to him before. Not even his brother. 

“And, like what my philosophy professor had quoted before: ‘friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.” Jackson raised a finger dramatically to emphasize his words with a grave expression before he turned around to face Mark and broke into a huge smile. “I’m happy you were honest with me, Mark. I think that’s the most honest you’ve been with me, but I hope that in the future, you’ll see us as friends and that you’ll trust us enough to confide with us.” 

He hadn’t expected Jackson to reach out to him with such kindness and introspection, his honest words and intentions of being friends with him incredibly earnest. He didn’t think Jackson, the dynamic social butterfly that he was, could ever consider him as a close friend and that he wasn’t shallow as Mark initially thought him to be. Jackson had an amiable and gracious character, and anyone would have been lucky to have him as as a friend. Mark was grateful, something light and warm filling his chest and the tightness in his facial features softening into an appreciative smile. Mark wasn’t great with words--he was clumsy with them and he had trouble using them to convey his feelings. 

“Thank you.” But he hoped that these two words were enough to transmit his gratitude. It seemed to have worked because Jackson’s face lit up with another huge grin. 

“No problem, _buddy_. Cheer up soon, okay?” 

He couldn’t guarantee it, but Mark smiled anyways. “Yeah.” 

He hadn’t noticed it until work had ended, but he came to a tranquil realization that he had been able to work throughout the day without the grappling consternation lodged in his ribcage, the lingering dread in his stomach slowly dissipated into a repose of quietude. It must have surely been ephemeral, Mark knew that. From Jackson’s exuberance and reassurance of their friendship--nothing, not even that, could permanently ease the ingrained hollow melancholia and inexplicable apprehension cultivated in the root of his soul, but it was enough to lift his spirits and to remind him that maybe, after all, he was still worthy of being a friend to someone. It’ll take time for him to become truly comfortable, but maybe this time, these people wouldn’t be like the others and give up on him. Maybe Jackson and Jaebum were different from the others. 

Jinyoung too. 

Perhaps he was just setting himself up for more hurt again, but hope was a deadly thing and for Mark, he always did have a penchant for things that’d lead to his own demise. 

But that was okay, because if flowers can handle the rain, then so can he. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!  
> btw guys Big Bang's comeback is amazing. i'm dying


	10. somewhat of a turning point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PrOgReSs?¿!¿??¿!¿¿!¿??
> 
> I think this is a relatively safe chapter, but there are some brief descriptions and depictions of violence.

There were a couple of reasons why Mark dreaded the holidays. 

He didn’t hate the jolly festivity per se, but it was excruciatingly overwhelming to be surrounded by so much happiness and joviality, to be blessed by strangers in the streets even though he didn’t celebrate it as he walked by buildings and stores adorned with flashy lights and convivial decorations. He’d rather be working but the bookstore was perpetually closed in the week of Christmas, so he and the employees were off on a short holiday break, which meant that Mark had nothing to do but drown in his thoughts all day at home. What he dreaded the most, however, were the incessant questions about family and whether he was going to go home to visit and celebrate with them. He had to lie between his teeth carved into a forced smile, painstakingly repeating what he’s been uttering all these years whenever people asked him: _“Not this year.”_

Mark stared at the book in his hands as he lounged on his bed, an icy blue and white cover that melded into a geometrical pattern with a detailed drawing of an old man sitting and writing--a simple design that was gentle and pleasing to the reader’s eye. He wasn’t really thinking when he purchased the book, only that the author had caught his eye with immediate familiarity. It reminded him of Jinyoung and his eloquent fondness for the author and his high esteemed works, how he would speak with a tinge of admiration and the sides of his lips would twitch as he held back a smile. Mark wondered how he would look like with a genuine smile on his face, not the ones he strained to display in a manner of courtesy or the ones stemmed from personal spite and wryness. He’s seen it once, but that was when he had been somewhat inebriated, so it didn’t exactly count. Underneath all the layers of stoicism and a veneer of detachment from others, Mark was still able to see the sequestered kindness, a dim glow in the depths of his character, something untouchable but worth instigating. 

He perked up when he heard a single _thump_ on the door, followed by a sequence of silence. He sat up slowly, muscles tense as he waited patiently for any knocks, but there was nothing. Mark didn’t know if it was a visitor that had mistaken his apartment door for someone else’s, but to be certain, Mark put the book aside on the night stand and quickly slid into his slippers. He stood up from the bed and quietly trudged towards the door, looking through the peephole to expect nothing but only to see a familiar figure of midnight blue and obsidian black. Nonplussed, he undid the locks and gradually opened the door, eyes wide when Jinyoung looked up from the floor. 

Mark didn’t say anything at first as he took a good look at Jinyoung’s face: there was a purple smudge above his eyebrow that sunk into the socket itself, spreading around it that presented the appearance of a black eye. There was a nasty, purple welt on the high point of his cheek, a vehement contusion that looked ghastly and grotesque against his pallid skin that fanned towards the bridge of his nose, and he sported a bruised lip that bled. His clothes were dark, but Mark noticed the stains of dirt and gravel that travelled down to his pants, and that’s when he noticed his hands--clenched so tightly until they trembled. Mark looked back up at Jinyoung’s steely, austere and unreadable gaze, eyes piceous and deadly. 

“Jinyoung,” There was a slight waver as he spoke, “what happened?”

He spoke with an icy bite to his rough voice, “I got jumped,” but he visibly winced as words left his mouth, as though it had caused him too much pain to speak and move his mouth and he took a sharp intake of breath. 

“Shit,” Mark cursed as he hurriedly opened the door wider to let Jinyoung in. He wordlessly stepped in and gingerly took off his shoes, dragging himself towards the wall beside the bookshelf, but Mark quickly stopped him with his shaky voice.

“No, not on the floor. Sit on the bed.” 

Jinyoung hummed thoughtfully as he stared at the white sheets, his back faced towards him, “I’ll get them dirty.”

“I don’t care about that right now.” He gritted his teeth and turned around, “Just wait there.”

He went into the bathroom as he noisily rummaged through the cabinets for the first aid kit before he re-emerged and grabbed a couple packs of ice from the fridge in the kitchenette. He placed the supplies onto a swivel chair and dragged it towards where Jinyoung was, who was silently situated at the edge of the bed. Mark took a seat next to him, studying the nasty wounds he sustained on his face. He was still processing the fact that he had been jumped, and realized that no matter how much of a cheerful festivity could bring people together with their jubilant spirit, there were ornery individuals despicable enough to cause such a menace. Mark supposed that the people who had attacked him must have sported more heinous injuries, because he remembers that in the past, Jinyoung had single-handedly handled--

His eyes travelled down towards Jinyoung’s fists trembling on his lap, merely windburned and sheathed with old scars, and felt an intensity of stupefaction flood him from head to toe. Without thinking, Mark reached for one of his hands, noticing the complete stiffness in his body and the hitch of breath he took when their hands came in contact, but Jinyoung didn’t pull away as Mark brought his hand closer so he could inspect it. His knuckles were uninjured, ungrazed and unbruised. They were chapped but clean. 

“Jinyoung,” Mark softly spoke, disbelief lacing through his tone as he felt Jinyoung’s burning gaze on him, “why didn’t you fight back?”

“It would have been pointless.” A bitter smile grew on his face as he scoffed. 

“It would have been self-defense.”

“It would have been me regressing back to who I was before.” He slipped his hand out of Mark’s gentle hold, bringing it back to his lap and turned his head away, eyes glinting with deep consternation, “And I’m not doing that.”

Mark chewed on his lower lip, eyes lowering as he grabbed the ice pack and brought it towards his bruised eye, and Jinyoung took hold of it and held it against his contusion, hissing at the newfound pain it brought, “How many were there?”

“Just three.”

“Do you know who they were?” 

Jinyoung was silent for a moment, as if he was considering the weight of his answer, reluctant to spill the truth, “I remember them from a rival gang back then. They always _did_ deliver punches that were like frilly pillows to the face. It's not hard to remember.” He managed a sour laugh, “They recognized me when I was heading to the subway. Recognized me as Junior. Taunted me, cornered me, and attacked me.”

“Why didn’t you--” Mark paused, trying to form the right words to approach, “why did you come here?” 

“I hate infirmaries and I’m not a snitch. The hyungs will ask me too many questions I don’t want to answer.” He lifted his eyes from the ground to meet Mark’s, his unnerving gaze conveying words he didn’t need to verbalize: _but you won’t._

That was true, because Mark already knew everything-- knew of the vindictive enemies that were still lurking around the interstices of Seoul. Mark knew, and thus, didn’t need to ask. He just understood, and that was what Jinyoung needed at the moment. 

Mark’s unsteady gaze ventured downwards towards his fists again, noticing that they were trembling once more, and that was when it finally clicked. He came to the realization that Jinyoung was _angry_ , and that his cold appearance of aloofness was merely a facade to mask the frustration he felt profoundly towards himself. How, as he gripped the fabric of his coat so tightly until his knuckles turned white, he must have felt completely powerless to hold everything back, to present such a defenseless form in front of the vulgar recreants who would judge the hardest and the most noxious out of him, who had witnessed his talent of violence and cruel hostility of his past character wane into a paradigm of vulnerability that they had easily used to their advantage to make him feel further inferior-- _weak_ , the one thing Jinyoung couldn’t simply accept. 

But to Mark, he didn’t think that not fighting back against the vile incitements was an indication of weakness. It was a certain kind of strength--a humble one, to let the taunting words flow through his ears and out instead of being lodged within the deep recesses of his mind to covertly undermine his own being. 

He understood, however, so Mark didn’t prod any further and focused on his injuries instead. “Hey, let me see your lip.”

As Mark got to work, washing his own hands before wiping away the crusts of dried blood from Jinyoung’s cut lip with a damp cloth, cleaning it thoroughly as he lightly maneuvered around with careful hands, he tried his utmost best to ignore Jinyoung’s fierce, daunting gaze and to focus on the task at hand. It was difficult, however, to avoid his intense but earnest eyes, and it unnerved Mark, because Jinyoung was being so openly blatant about his staring and didn’t bother to hide it whether he was aware of it or not. He rummaged through the first aid kit and with a disposable q-tip, he gently applied the antiseptic ointment to the wound, croaking an apology when Jinyoung winced in pain.

“This brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Mark cleared his throat at an awkward attempt of initiating a conversation to distract himself from being too aware of their close proximity. “I was never involved in your fights, but I always treated your injuries after each one.”

Jinyoung cracked a half-hearted smirk, voice raspy as he tried to speak without moving his mouth too much, “Right, you’d always stick one of those ridiculous cartoon bandages on me too.” 

“They’re an animated series of nostalgic, comedic gold, not just a cartoon.” Mark frowned, “Besides, I couldn’t tell if I was mostly disgusted by the fact that you didn’t know what Looney Tunes was or that bloody cut you got when someone almost stabbed you with a switchblade at that time.” 

“I’d say the latter.” He huffed a single wry laugh. The conversation fell, but it had helped alleviate the tension in the air, making it easier to breathe again. Even back then, they rarely joked around with each other, so it came to Mark as a surprise at how easy it had just been to converse so lightly like that. Mark was finished with the application, instructing Jinyoung not to touch or pick at it as it would slowly heal over the days. Jinyoung seemed to have listened intently, but it looked as though he was focused intently on something else, which proved Mark’s point when he finally opened his mouth to speak sotto voce, “How are you so kind to me after the way I treated you?” His gaze softened, the intensity blending into something subdued, and Mark paused midway of reaching for another pack of ice. 

“I don’t know.” Mark slowly continued what he was about to do, grabbing the pack of ice and holding it out for Jinyoung to take with his other hand, motioning him to put it on his bruised cheek. Mark hated being so clumsy with words when words meant so much. “I mean, it’s been coincidence after coincidence of meeting each other in the most unexpected ways. I didn’t think we’d see each other again. It’s kind of like fate playing its part.”

Jinyoung’s eyebrows scrunched up in incredulity, “Do you really believe in that? Fate?”

“No, I don’t believe in those kind of things.” Mark said, eyes skirting towards the window, to the walls, to his bookshelf, “But I believe in forgiveness.” 

He offered Jinyoung a sheepish smile when he didn’t answer, “You know that, don’t you? If I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t have said those things at the diner and let you in here.” He glanced down at his own hands. He aimed to be lionhearted but his hands never quite stopped shaking and his voice was never quite loud enough, “It’s true that in the past, you were a person who made choices I didn’t approve of. You hurt a lot of people too, but it’s been three years. For me, at least, it’s okay now.”

“How is it _okay_?” He spoke through gritted teeth.

“Because I know that everyone’s survival looks a little bit different from each others. Yours just looked a little bit like death.” Mark said, a wistfulness attuned to the smile on his face. He saw how much his busted lip had swelled, so he grabbed a cold compress and gently pressed it against the wound on his lip to numb the pain, since both of Jinyoung’s hands were occupied, “Besides, you’re not who you were in the past before. You’ve changed, and I think changed behaviour is the best form of an apology anybody could ever receive, especially when you’ve changed for nobody else but yourself.” He didn’t know why, but he felt like it was easier to be honest in front of Jinyoung, that it was easier to speak in candidness than in a convoluted jumble of indirect half-truths like he did with other people. 

The packs of ice crunched when Jinyoung gripped them too tightly.

Mark didn’t know when, along the way, feelings of jealousy and inhibited melancholia towards Jinyoung had turned into something less sad, less bitter, and something in the form of… proudness, he guessed, because when he wasn’t busy self-deprecating and pitying himself, he’s forgotten that Jinyoung had been at the lowest of the low just like him, at the depths of the gutters clawing at the remains of what self-preserved identity he still owned, to climb his way out of it in the end and make a new person out of himself, becoming somebody nobody thought he could be. It took tremendous strength to carry out that process of excruciating change, and it was only a matter of time that Mark registered it, to remind himself that he wasn’t the only one who had scary monsters lurking around within his head. 

Jinyoung reclined the ice packs away from his bruises, giving his face a break from the frigidity numbing the pain. Mark pulled the cold compress away from his lip as well, seeing that the swelling had diminished slightly. Jinyoung shifted in his seat, something different and unreadable in his expression as he seemed to mull over the words spoken to him. 

“You’re half right,” Jinyoung quietly spoke, the tension in his bones slowly receding, “It was mostly for my mother, at first. I figured if she knew that I wasn’t going down the same road as my father, I’d find her and she’d find me and want me back. The best revenge is to live a happy life, right? To prove everyone wrong, but I’m not quite there yet.” _I’m not quite happy yet._

“Did your mother ever find you?’ 

Jinyoung wore a smile Mark was all-too familiar with, because he had that kind of self-deprecating smile too, “My mother left a will for me, her only son. She gave me all her money--all her savings, everything she earned, and wanted me to inherit all of it. She never found me, but her last wishes did. That was the point where I continued just for myself, motivated by grief and spite, because losing someone is not an event, but an ongoing process, don’t you agree?” He spared a glance at Mark, understanding reaching his tired eyes, and those words ringed a reverberation of truth Mark has never felt until now, “The money I inherited helped me in everything, and the college here was the only place that would accept a fuck-up like me, considering my records. 

“I’m not everything I want to be,” Jinyoung said, and Mark felt the urge to brush away the creases between his furrowed brows, to smooth them out into a countenance of placidity, “but I’m more than what I was. The relationship you have with yourself is the most important relationship in your life.” 

Mark blinked at him, at his sagacious words that undoubtedly stemmed from something truly personal and intimate in him. It was revelation after revelation, a sort of honesty he’s never seen from him before, and it left a flicker of warmth drifting in his chest. Mark suddenly felt the compulsion to touch him, just to see if he was real and tangible and not just a phantasm of his dreams. He could only agree with the nod of his head and a soft, “Yeah.” 

“I’m still learning." Jinyoung slanted him a knowing glance, "I’m working on it--on forgiving.” 

Realizing what he meant, Mark couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face, nodding slightly at that hopeful undertone. “Yeah.” 

Mark glanced out the window when they fell silent once more. It was already late, and to send Jinyoung away when he was injured into the night with the possibility of being attacked again, Mark didn’t want that to happen. “You can stay for tonight, since you’re already here. It’s dark outside and you already have enough injuries on your face.”

“And on my ribs.” 

Mark winced as he gathered all the things that needed to be disposed of. He threw it in the trash can before he scrubbed his hands clean in the bathroom, and headed to the fridge to grab more ice packs. “You could have told me sooner.” 

“I was occupied with our heart-to-heart conversation.” There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

“And I have a feeling this won’t be the last one.” Mark replied, wondering how Jinyoung was able to even move in a seemingly effortless way if he sported injuries on his midriff. Mark knew that the ice packs sitting in his freezer would’ve came in handy some day, “Here, ice them for now. You can take the bed, since you’re injured. I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

Jinyoung gave him a look that was both unnerving and tender, and nodded. 

“I’ll… let Jaebum know, in case he wonders where you’re at.” Mark said, about to grab his phone that was on his night stand, before he noticed the book beside it as well. He went to grab it instead, turning around to face Jinyoung, who was gingerly sitting on bed as he readjusted himself, placing the ice packs over his sides with a pained grimace. Mark didn’t know what came over him, but he approached him with inhibition rattling his bones, “Hey.” 

Jinyoung looked up and quirked and eyebrow, his eyes catching the book Mark had in his hands, “What?” 

“Take it.” Mark handed the book to him with unintentional forcefulness, his limbs rigid with apprehension, “I don’t know why I bought it in the first place--it was on sale. Kinda like impulsive spending. I can’t read any of his books without wanting to tear my hair out, anyways, so--you take it.” He shrugged, tugging the sleeves of his shirt, wringing them as he watched Jinyoung gaze at the title of the book, hands gently hovering above the cover. His lips parted in muted surprise, eyebrows raised with a glint in his eyes, the same light his eyes would possess whenever he laid sight on his favourite author. 

“ _Pale Fire._ ” Jinyoung muttered. He was quiet for another moment before he looked up at Mark, his narrowed gaze piercing and flickering with a sheen of uncertainty, “I really don’t understand you.”

Mark tilted his head in puzzlement when he didn’t know how to answer that sudden statement. Mark was about to turn around when neither of them spoke another word, but what startled him into a halt was the clandestine smile Jinyoung wore, his lips curved into a genuine, soft smile that reached his cheeks despite the pain he must have felt, the way the whisker-like crinkles endearingly framed his crescent eyes, his gaze gleaming with a earnest fondness at the book in his hands. Even with the variegated bruises he donned, his smile was that of eloquent simplicity, of reticent beauty that surprised Mark into a stunned poise. He’s never witnessed that kind of smile before, a smile free of any hostility and violence, just a susceptible gentleness that thawed the solemnity from his sharp features. 

Aware of the fact that he was the one who made him smile like that, Mark couldn’t focus over his mind short-circuiting because he didn’t know what to do. This, however, was for certain:

Jinyoung was at once both the quiet and confusion of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This break isn't helping with my writing block at all. OTL  
> Man, when you just have the right scenario in your head but being unable to fully write it out the way you want it is the most frustrating thing ever, but I hope this is enough to thaw the angstiness I've been vomiting since chapter 1. 
> 
> Have a happy happy happy holiday, everyone!  
> Thank you for reading once again, and much love!


	11. a confusing growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mark finds himself at a party. he hates parties. parties never really end well. (sometimes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PrOGRESS???¿¿¿¿¿???¿¿¿ (i'm probably gonna keep saying that until the end of this fic)  
> SORRY FOR THE WORD VOMIT OMG BUT ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, MARK GROWS SOME BALLS.
> 
> I mean, a somewhat college au isn't complete without a party scene, am i rite? (i'm jk it's just for plot purposes) 
> 
> t/w: there's a mean asshole in the middle of the chapter that says a some hateful/ignorant things about women and other things and cusses hella lot, etc. (of course i don't condone his douchebaggery) and mentions of drugs, alcohol, and some violence!

He was at a party.

Not out of his own volition, though.

He stared past the spindly trees, the darkened greenery of deciduous leafage receding in corresponding movement with the wind in a slow rustle. The rhythmic pounding of EDM music and the heavy bass was shaking the floor underneath his feet, thumping against the walls of the large house that was lit up in neon lights, visible through the transparent windows, expelling dim rays of bright lights through the cracks of the building and illuminating the foliage and nuances of the neighborhood. There was inebriated laughter, wild cheering, and incoherent chatter that ringed throughout the chilly atmosphere of the caliginous evening. The sky was clear, but no stars could be discernibly seen, but the air was refreshing to his lungs, vividly rejuvenating them with a sense of vitality to the stiffness of his bones; to re-establish his personal circle after being smothered incessantly in the tight spaces of the large, wealthy house. 

Even as he was seated at the steps of the porch, allowing himself to deeply breathe as much as he could to calm down his recalcitrant nerves, all he could see was the flashing of colourful, vibrant lights amidst the dim room blinding his eyes, the unsightly mess of beer bottles littered around the floor. He remembers the way Jackson dragged him around to meet his wild friends, and how the older stranger’s blurry face, features foggy and inscrutable, had lit up in nosy, pretentious recognition when Mark timidly and uncomfortably introduced himself amidst the gargantuan noise.

_“You look kind of familiar, ya know?”_

Mark could hear alarms going off in his head that time, and he booked it the second they weren’t looking at him. 

He remembers a languid drunkard offering him a foul blunt and the mingle of sweaty bodies intertwining in the fluorescent, makeshift dance floor of the spacious living room. He remembers being pushed into it while trying to escape and being caught up in the tangle of limbs half-heartedly moving to the rapid beat of the music, a hand brushing against his thigh and someone tall and fetidly sinewy pressing against him from behind, the feeling of being suffocated and touched without consent suffocating him; he sees the girl who had linked her thin arm around his with a coy, coquettish smile, eyes lighting up with a suggestive enticement, and remembers at that moment, he had felt the bile rise up to his throat before wrenching his arm away to pave his path through the crowd to immediately leave. 

He didn’t consume any alcohol since he learned his lesson the last time he did, but he still felt inexplicably sick. He had been too distracted by the swarming collision of bodies that crowded him and the entire house, with the lights too bright and music too loud. The nausea was still there--the unauthorized touches were still like poltergeists, clinging to the intangible depth of his skin. He didn’t like crowds, didn’t like being in it or being part of it, and the thunderous environment contrasted his affinity for the quiet. Even now, after escaping outside, he could still feel the residues of profound discomfort perforating at the prickling framework of his insides. His fingers trembled with the slightest shakes, his knees jerking involuntarily, the unpleasant, musty smell of weed filling his nose as it escaped past the panels of the house. 

He didn’t leave. He feared that Jackson would worry about where he had disappeared to without a single warning (and he kind of promised he’d stay the whole night), but then his thoughts circled around to the likely possibility that Jackson was too drunk to think about him. He’ll forget about Mark and the fact that he invited him, forget that he was ever there, because Mark wore a perpetual cloak of invisibility, blending in with the bland background that rendered him a lonesome shadow. He should have rejected his invitation to his friend’s house party, situated in an affluent neighborhood, and his incessant whining, but Jackson was relentless and he had an incredible vice grip. He gave in to his persistence and came to regret it, remembering his lewd, jestering words, _“I want you to live a little, man. Do you know how sad I’ve been? I’ve been rejected by you more than the girls that make up my entire humanitarian studies class! So, maybe a night of actual social stimulation can actually, I don’t know, benefit you. You know, do more lifting than just your spirits, if you know what I mean.”_

Mark was slowly reconsidering if he should actually be friends with the guy. 

He didn’t fit into the scene. The majority of the party goers were fucking rich as hell, especially the owner of the house, with their flashy outfits and expensive looking decorations. Even the pristine bushes were cut and shaved into various shapes of indistinguishable animals, and there was even a fancy pool in the backyard. The neighbors didn’t seem to mind, but Mark thought it was probably because they were loaded enough to probably build soundproof walls in their opulent homes. It was astonishing how many connections Jackson had, although he seemed to come from a well-heeded family as well, but at least he was humble about it. The grand house made Mark feel a bit ashamed of his own living conditions. (He had found a weight room compartmentalized into a closet and it was the size of Mark’s own studio apartment, which was quite sad, honestly.) 

He buried his head into his arms, ignoring the approaching steps and dull palpitations of low heels. The waft of smoke entered his field of smell as he felt a presence loom over him. After a moment of attentive consideration, the figure settled beside him, the steps creaking at the newfound weight, and the person was thoughtful enough to leave a considerate breadth of space between them. 

“Mark.” He looked up, relieved to see that it was Jaebum clad in a leather jacket and not a stranger. He was slightly nonplussed, however, to see a burning cigarette hanging in between his lips. “Hi. You okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Your expression begs to differ.” Jaebum deeply exhaled a dim white snake, and Mark watched as it nullified into a nonexistent presence as it ascended upwards in a thinned filigree, leaving behind a foggy remnant. He snuffed it against the floor of the porch afterwards, “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Mark said quietly, watching as a thin curl of smoke elicited from the extinguished flame, before it was nothing again. “I don’t mind.” The smell of a fuming cigarette was of a familiar aroma, a fragment of his childhood that he kaleidoscopically remembers with the accompaniment of unwarranted wistfulness, tugging at his heart’s gelid strings of a peculiar feeling of faraway nostalgia. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“S’a habit I picked up when I was a freshman in college, although it’s more of a coping mechanism.” He grinned sheepishly, “So, what are you doing out here?

Mark kept his eyes demurely on the boarded floor of the porch. “I don’t like parties.”

“Jackson got to you, huh? He has a knack at persuasion.” Jaebum sighed, leaning back on his hands as he thoughtfully surveyed the night sky, “But I hope you know he means well. He cares about you, and wants people to get to know you like he does. He can be a pain in the ass, but in that weird head of his, he always has good intentions behind what he does, like dragging you to this shitty house party. He can be insensitive to his surroundings, and is also kind of thickheaded too. I wouldn’t have come here either if he didn’t persuade my boyfriend into dragging Jinyoung and I here as well.” 

At that, Mark perked up in curiosity. He didn’t know that. Then again, Im Jaebum seldom talked about himself. He rarely mentioned his personal life and the intimacy of his thoughts and divulgations. He was the opposite of Jackson, who was profoundly talkative--a social butterfly--who beamed radiantly in the eyes of those who meet him. But at this moment, despite them being hardly close, Mark noticed the looseness in their concise interaction, neither stilted or forced or hostile. It was a nice change of pace, for once. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. It’s not a problem, is it?” He raised an eyebrow at him.

Mark shook his head, “Of course not. I was just surprised. I didn’t know that.”

“Well, you never asked,” He shrugged in a lighthearted manner, a friendly smile on his face, “but yeah, boyfriend. You guys haven’t met yet, since you never show up to our hang outs, but I’m sure you’d guys get along. Right now, instead of getting drunk out of his mind like Jackson, he’s probably playing with the owner’s dog.” He chuckled, a fond look in his eyes, and Mark could see the trust and genuine affinity he has for his partner. 

“When I met you guys at first,” Mark fought back a cheeky smile, the residues of discomfort ebbing away, “I thought Jackson was your boyfriend.”

Jaebum choked on his own spit and began spluttering, “I hope you never associate ‘boyfriend’ and ‘Jackson’ together ever again with me. What the fuck.”

Mark hummed smugly, “I’m kidding.” 

“I sure as hell hope you are.” Jaebum coughed into the crook of his elbow, scowling at him. He relaxed into a smile afterwards as silence settled between them, and he spoke up once more when rowdy shouts could be heard from behind, “I don’t know where Jinyoung is, but he’s probably hiding upstairs being a nerd.”

The both of them came to the party separately; Mark went with Jackson and arrived “fashionably” late, since that was what Jackson was going for since he was deemed as the “life of the party”. Jaebum and Jinyoung arrived early, to avoid the hoards of people that would be rushing in simultaneously. Mark hasn’t seen Jinyoung once at all tonight, being dragged around by Jackson like a ragdoll before running outside to take a breather. 

“How?” Mark quirked an eyebrow.

“He brought a fucking book. A _book_. To a _party_. With a bunch of hammered twenty-something year olds who smell like alcohol, pot and sex.” Jaebum laughed.

“What kind of a book?” He hummed.

Jaebum gave him a look of disbelief. “Seriously?” To which Mark responded with a shrug. Jaebum shook his head and smiled, “You know, it’s kind of a surprise to see how close you two have become. Is everything okay now?” 

Mark fidgeted with the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes dropping to the ground. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not blind. You two looked like deers caught in the headlights when you two saw each other on that night of hot pot, remember? Jackson probably didn’t notice, but I did. I assumed something bad happened in high school, huh?” Jaebum slanted him an inquisitive glance, “Jinyoung was pretty grumpy after that. He looked troubled and wouldn’t stop giving me snappy responses whenever I tried to ask him what happened, or how he was doing, that little asshat. Wouldn’t stop bothering Jackson to see if you were fine too, which was weird, since he gave off the impression that he wanted nothing to do with you. I assumed you felt the same.” 

“Yeah.” Mark pressed his lips into a flat line, before he started chewing on his lower lip. It was strange to hear that, of the possibility that Jinyoung had been capable of worrying about him, something that Mark thought could never happen considering their tricky friendship at the moment--if he can even call it a friendship or whatever. “You can say that. I don’t know if things are completely okay, though. We’re just solving some issues that couldn’t be solved back then--interpersonally, I guess.” He paused, a certain feeling swelling in his chest that he didn’t want to identify, so he swallowed it back down, “It’s… complicated.” 

“Seems like it.” Jaebum nodded in understanding, “High school is a bitch for everyone, except for the lucky ones. I don’t know what shit went down between you two, and I’m not going to be nosy about it, but if you need any help, I’m here to provide any average advice I can--better than Jackson’s, if I say so myself.” He smiled at Mark, pointing at his own face as reference, “But he came to you instead of us when he got in trouble, didn’t he? I suppose it’s because you two have known each other longer than us, so he trusts you more, it seems.” 

He trusts you more. 

“That doesn’t mean I’ll trust you again.” 

Mark really wasn’t sure which one to believe. He didn’t know what to say. Trust had always been a sensitive topic that didn’t solve itself to both him and Jinyoung, especially to Jinyoung. So, the notion that Jinyoung trusts him? Might as well throw that possibility out the window. 

“You know, we live in a world where we think too much before expressing ourselves. We think too much about what people think of us and what they say behind our backs, and we spend so much time worrying about such trivial things, we forget to live happily. We forget to make ourselves happy. We chain ourselves down to assimilate to society and learn to keep our mouth shut--sometimes to say something as simple as ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘You’ll always be special to me.’“ Jaebum clasped his hands together as he leaned forward on his knees, eyes fixated on a vast point of the sky, the background noise growing louder and noisier by the minute, “We shouldn’t be afraid of what the outcome may be. We should be free to voice our feelings to each other before we lose the opportunity--before we lose our voices in the sea of conventionality and fear.”

“...But what if,” Mark found himself saying, “what if we’ve already lost our voices? What if we’re simply just cowards tied down from our pasts?” 

Jaebum studied him for a thoughtful moment, “Well, let’s just put it this way in the words of Sigmund Freud: unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth, later, in uglier ways.” 

He knows the weight of Jaebum’s words, what he actually means by directing these sagacious words at him, because even though Jackson isn’t very perceptive, Jaebum is. 

“Anyone can hide. Facing up to things, working through them--like what you’re doing right now--that’s what makes you strong.” Jaebum patted Mark’s back amicably, “Jinyoung’s a weirdo. He reminds me of you, actually. He doesn’t talk about himself, doesn’t even open up until a day’s worth of nagging until he finally says what he wants to eat for goddamn dinner, doesn’t say what he’s feeling. He’s wary around people, and doesn’t really know how to connect. But he’s different around you. That I know.” 

Mark recalls all the times he broke down in his own bathroom, flashes of red and scars and heavy silences flickering before his eyes, the way he never slept because nightmares robbed him of his sleep and how his feelings were never in the right order and the way he saw the world in monochromatic tones. He didn’t think he was strong at all. Not as strong as Jinyoung. Not as strong as the stars, the sun, the moon that perpetually shone through the dismal moods and darkness of the weather. He hid all his life, and living a lightless future was the only pursuit he had in life, wasn’t it? Because he wasn’t strong. Never will be. 

But then he remembered how he cradled Jinyoung’s hand in his own, the way he spoke without a waver in his tone as he forgave him, how even though he aimed to be lionhearted with shaking hands and a quiet voice, he didn’t flinch. How, as he tried to put on layers and layers of masks, he could never seem to get into character when he was around Jinyoung. He remembers the way he took that impulsive leap to chase after him, how he took that first step to make things right, and how simple it was to be able to talk to him without the nudge of apprehension rattling his bones. He accepted Jackson’s sincerity, allowing himself to be comfortable in the inkling of friendship, something Mark wouldn’t have done in the past. 

There, Mark realized that strength didn’t come in the singular shape of a silver spoon. No, strength was accumulated, it was built upon with elements of growth and tenacity, an unwavering motivation to pummel through life’s obstacles and the mind’s shrouds of darkness that never seemed to leave. It came in vast, different forms and shapes and sizes. Maybe Mark will never be the strongest, will never claim to be fearless, but he realized that unconsciously, he was trying. He really was. His strength was a tiny shape, ever-fleeting and transitory, but it was there, it was growing. All those things he did, those small things--he wouldn’t have done them at all, but he did anyways. He didn’t know when hope had started to flourish in his chest, unbeknownst to him until now as he felt his heart thump in a staccato of earnesty. 

“You think I’m strong?” Was all he could mutter. 

Jaebum studied him for a staid moment in considerate thought, and nodded. “Yeah. I think you are. You’re here right now, aren’t you? Not at this stupid party, but here. Living.” 

Mark let out a hollow laugh, “Is my misery really that obvious?”

“Not exactly.” Jaebum shrugged, “I’m just speaking from personal experience.”

“Thank you.” Mark gave him a tiny smile, one that was genuine. “I… appreciate it. A lot.”

“Ah, well, I probably went overboard. No worries. Just don’t tell Jackson I spewed a philosophical tangent. I’ve been hanging around him way too much lately and I’ll probably never hear the end of it.” 

“Duly noted.”

“Well, I should head back in. Can’t leave them alone too long.” Jaebum sighed heavily, but he seemed carefree about it. He stood up, the boards underneath his feet squeaking from the shifted weight. “Are you going to stay out here all night?”

“Probably.” Mark watched as a party-goer and his friends shuffled down past them and threw himself down onto the lawn, laughing and evidently drunk. 

“Well, take care.” Jaebum patted him on the shoulder as he went to go back in, uttering a surprised noise as he stopped at the threshold, “Oh, speak of the nerd.” 

Mark turned around and spotted Jinyoung with an open book in his hands stumbling past a pair of long legs belonging to a stoned, young man whose mind seemed to have wandered off into the astral plane by the door. Jinyoung shot the boy a dirty look before his eyes landed on Jaebum, “Nerd? I prefer the term _erudite_.”

“Whatever you say,” Jaebum gave him a cheeky grin as he headed back into the house. Mark watched as an unfamiliar young man with fluffy brown hair approach him, slinging an arm around Jaebum’s broad shoulder as they disappeared back into the crowd. His eyes wandered towards Jinyoung who sat beside him, leaving a breadth of space between them as he settled down on the step of the porch. He looked better, Mark thought as he examined the bruises on his face that had slowly faded from a deep purple to a light yellow with smidgens of green. There were still faint traces of violet that highlighted his cheeks, but his lip seemed less swollen than before, which was a good sign, but his dark circles seemed darker. (Mark’s own dark circles didn’t look that great too.) They didn’t exchange many words after the night he had stayed over, other than perfunctory greetings and gratitude when Jinyoung left to return back to his dorm, but the tension between them had dissolved into something earnestly calm when honesty was shared. It was easier to breathe, easier to talk around Jinyoung, but there was always that something that sat in his chest, pulling at the strings of his heart which he had no control over. Right now, though, he felt more at ease. His body no longer shuddered at the ghosts of invading touches, slowly waning into the distant night. 

“You brought a book to a party?” Mark asked.

“I did.” Jinyoung dog-eared the page he was on, closing it, “He knows I don’t like parties, and would rather read through the New Year instead of grinding on the dance floor. Celebrations are ephemeral. They’re insignificant, in a sense. That’s the beauty of books, though. In a way, they never really end.” 

“Yeah.” He felt a smile tug at his looks as he looked at the title, _Pale Fire_ , “I agree.” 

“Mhm. So, what brings you out here?” Jinyoung looked at him with eyes dark as the sky, full of inscrutability but with a quiet beauty to them. They seemed less sullen and more soft, Mark noticed.

“Same as you.” Mark said, “I don’t like parties.” 

Jinyoung glanced at him with a knowing look, “I wouldn’t recommend going back in. They all reek of weed and alcohol, although the bedroom I lounged in was quite nice. Silk curtains and everything. It had a nice view too, although the walls are quite thin and I could hear the couple next door fornicating.” 

“What?” Mark felt his cheeks burned at the unexpected mention of it. 

Jinyoung gave him an unamused look, “They were fucking.” 

“I know what ‘fornicating’ means.” He grumbled, huddling closer into himself as he rested his chin on his knees. He heard Jinyoung’s muted laughter, and a subdued silence befell upon them, other than the raves of cacophony screeching behind them. It felt as though they were disconnected from the clamor, idling in their own world. 

“Do you enjoy the book so far?” Mark gestured at the book in Jinyoung’s hand half-heartedly. 

Jinyoung nodded once, “I do. It’s an illustrious concoction of detective fiction. Dark, witty, and ingenious. It’s nice to have my own copy of it. Never really had the time to find it in the stores.” He gave a faint smile, “His books; his works--they can be convoluted and full of vague meanings. That’s what makes it enjoyable. You grab at any detail you can find and piece it together with the information you’ve gathered. You’re admiring the work of fiction as your brain subconsciously finds all the little meanings behind each written thing, although it’s usually unnecessary. I just find the experience fun and challenging. It’s not all that bad once you’ve become fairly familiar with his style.” 

Jinyoung reciprocated eye contact when he caught Mark unabashedly staring at him, seemingly lost in a daze. Even Mark didn’t know, until Jinyoung snapped his fingers at him to get his attention. “What?” 

Mark shook his head, a mellow smile on his face as his eyes flitted down towards the ground, “It’s nothing. Just…” His low voice quieted, “I always knew you were brilliant.” 

The theatrical lights, ostentatiously radiating from the inside slowly blurred like an unclear vision of the world, the music dimming into a low hum in Mark’s ears as he registered the cursory signs of astonishment in Jinyoung’s expression. His eyes widened just ever so slightly, his stare deep as the ocean, vast as the galaxy, full of life and coldness but with a limber balance of warmth. His lips parted as though he wanted to say something, to question him and accuse and maybe even snarl, but nothing came out of his mouth. Just an air of surprise. A sharp inhalation of disbelief. Hands wrapped tightly around the book Mark gave him. The frigid air biting his ears and cheeks and nose in a dust of cerise. 

“You--” Jinyoung finally found his voice, eyebrows scrunched up in contemplation, but a loud crash pierced the air and startled them both out of their own world. Mark heard thuds and shouting and screaming and more sounds of broken bottles rippling through the joviality of the atmosphere. There was a familiar voice that kept yelling, but the words were incoherent, as others started to gather around a scene, pushing and shoving, murmuring and chanting. 

“I think--I think that was Jackson.” Mark narrowed his eyes as he stood up, Jinyoung following suit not long after.

“Great. What a wonderful way to end the year.” Jinyoung muttered, walking ahead of Mark as he shoved people out of his way, paving a path through the commotion, which Mark was grateful for since he wouldn’t be able to do that himself if he were to lead the way. The music had stopped, replaced with a heated argument in the center of the floor. They finally made their way to the front, and his eyes immediately wandered to Jackson, who was cradling his jaw with a pained expression as he stumbled, unable to stand still properly. The table that held most of the beverages and snacks had been broken, collapsed messily on the floor, broken beer bottles littering around it. The young man with the fluffy brown hair was by Jackson’s side, helping him as Jaebum stood in front of them in a protective manner. A disheveled girl was crying, huddled by her group of friends, and as Mark’s eyes wandered to the man who was probably the root of the problem, Mark somewhat remembered him. The features in his memory was blurry, but he remembers the shape of his nose, the pretentious way he carried himself and his wild hair. He was one of Jackson’s friends Mark was introduced to, who had found Mark faintly familiar before he ran away. 

“That hurt, you son of a bitch,” Jackson spat, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Jae-Sun?” 

“You involved yourself in something that was none of your business, okay?” The guy, Jae-Sun, growled, “You saw it fucking coming.”

“You don’t treat girls like that!” Jackson exasperatedly exclaimed, gesturing at the girl who was crying, “You don’t fucking disrespect women, you asshole. You _hurt_ her.”

“I’ll treat girls however I want to--” Jae-Sun stepped forward in a threatening manner, but he swayed slightly, his eyes unable to stay open. He was drunk just like the rest of the other bystanders, murmuring in their low, intoxicated voices. 

“Hey, man, we don’t any trouble,” Jaebum held up two hands, “Just apologize to the girl and we’ll leave the party.” 

“Why the fuck should I apologize?” Jae-Sun said with burning hostility, “That bitch should be the one apologizing. If she wanted me to stop touching her, then she shouldn’t have dressed up like a fucking whore.” He turned his head towards her, “This must be fucking exciting for you, huh? Getting attention like this--calling me the bad guy--who the hell do you think you are?”

”I swear I am going to--” Jackson made a move to grab at Jae-Sun, but Jaebum pushed him back, whispering harshly to him somewhere along the lines of ‘don’t be a fucking idiot’ and ‘you are drunk out of your mind’ and ‘you can’t even land a punch without tripping over yourself’. Mark watched as Jinyoung calmly made his way towards where they were. Hesitatingly, Mark followed after him, pulling at his sleeves. 

“When young boys like you think they can do whatever they want to a girl without mutual consent, it usually means you’re unfathomably desperate enough to cross the lines. Desperation isn’t pretty, y’know? It’s a complete turn off. In this case, you’re _way_ past desperate, which is kind of mortifying. It also means you’re a sexist asshole. It isn’t her fault she didn’t want your crusty ass. Instead of prolonging this incredibly childish and embarrassing situation you’ve landed yourself in, I think it is in our best interest you apologize to her--” Jinyoung pointed at the girl, “--and to him--” He pointed at Jackson, “--so you can at least preserve the last bits of your rapidly deteriorating dignity and ego to save face--well, if there’s still anything left, anyways.” He spoke with a fluid eloquence, his darkened eyes never leaving as he stood inches away from Jae-Sun, poking him in the chest with the edge of his book. The air around him shifted into something gravely sullen and threatening, a smile ghosting his lips, “Okay?”

“And who,” Jae-Sun shoved Jinyoung back by the shoulders, seemingly more angry now, “the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you calling desperate?” 

“I thought I made it clear that I called _you_ desperate.” Jinyoung blinked in feigned confusion, “Did that not go through your thick skull? Ah, right, since you can’t even understand a simple ‘no’, that would explain why you failed to comprehend all that. Oh, silly me.” 

“Oh my god,” Jaebum groaned as he ran a hand over his face, Jackson snorting and wincing at the same time while some of the people who were still sober enough to understand snickered underneath their breaths in the crowd. 

“Jinyoung,” Mark warned quietly, inwardly cringing at how wobbly his voice was, because he never did well in confrontational situations. Jinyoung looked back at him with a sullen frown, but he wasn’t the only one who captured his attention. Mark stilled when Jae-Sun peered over to him, examining him from head to toe in a slow, languid manner, making him unconsciously scrunch up his shoulders in an effort to make himself smaller. His eyebrows furrowed in deep speculation before he looked back at Jinyoung, eyeing him in the same way. His inebriated eyes flashed with sudden recognition, mouth opening in surprised before twisting into a nasty sneer, letting out a hoarse laugh as he stepped back, looking back and forth between Mark and Jinyoung. 

“Jinyoung?” Jae-Sun said in an eerily cheerful manner, “As in Park Jinyoung? Oh wait, no, it’s _Junior_ , right?”

Mark barely held back a flinch, his veins turning cold as blood rushed about in his body, his heartbeat quickening and his palms becoming balmier by the second. He stood in stunned silence, unable to comprehend how _he knows. He knows who he is._ Jinyoung, on the other hand, seemed calm. His expression didn’t change, his disposition still a cold ambience of control, his knuckles turned white. 

“What a fucking small world!” Jae-Sun drunkenly shrieked, pointing at Mark, “I knew you looked familiar! Fucking hell, you’re still following this guy? You’re still his bitch?”

“Who’s Junior?” Jackson mumbled in the background, but Mark couldn’t hear anything else as he stared at Jae-Sun, his body involuntarily trembling. 

“I’m sorry, but,” Jinyoung tilted his head, bored eyes surveying Jae-Sun’s face for added effect, “do I know you?”

“Bastard!” Jae-Sun snapped, tongue loose from the alcohol in his system,”My brother is in prison because of you! He threw his life away because of your influence, because of your stupid fucking gang, and you can’t even bother to remember the names of the lives you’ve ruined?” He leaned closer as his voice descended into a low growl, baring his teeth at him, “You are a _fake_. A poser, thinking that you can just leave your past behind and lead a normal life, thinking that nobody would know you--but _I_ know you, Junior. You’re still a disgusting, petty hound, always searching for fresh meat--”

Mark’s eyes flitted to Jinyoung’s hands, clenched tightly by his side, twitching but never moving. He saw Jaebum lose his patience, gripping the ends of his sleeves, but he made no move to intervene. The crowd’s murmurs turned into a hazy drone, and all Mark could hear was the spiteful words that left Jae-Sun’s mouth, ugly and grotesque and _wrong_. 

“You think you can just waltz right in here and pretend? No fucking way, not when you destroyed my brother’s life--my family’s life--”

“Kim Jae-Eun made his own choice.” Jinyoung said lowly, “There was a reason I disbanded it. It was his choice to continue that lifestyle when he went back home.”

“I always knew you were a fucking monster. It’s your fucking fault and you can’t even own up to it, huh? Like father, like son.” He sneered, taking a few steps back, but halted to a forced stop when Jinyoung gripped his arm.

“Excuse me?” Jinyoung whispered harshly. “ _What did you say to me_?”

“Oh,” Jae-Sun laughed in delight at the sudden revelation, taking pleasure in Jinyoung’s distress, “Looks like I hit a sore spot, huh? Well guess what, Junior? It’s only a matter of time before you end up in the slammer like your fucking criminal of a father who beats his wife and kid for a living. No matter what you do, no matter what kind of disguise you put on, you will always be like your---”

_Crack._

The distorted sound of bones colliding resonated against the walls, leaving the room in a stunned silence as Jae-Sun fell to the floor with a loud thud, shouting in pain from his nose. Mark felt a rush of adrenaline pump through his veins, leaving him an anxious and anticipating mess, his knuckles aching with a burning, sharp pain from the hit he had landed. His breath staggered and his shoulders trembled, but he kept his fist clenched tightly, something uncomfortably scorching and unpleasant bubbling in his chest. He couldn’t name what he was feeling, but it was an emotion that took control of his mind and body with a rapid snap--it all happened so fast when he punched Jae-Sun in the face, but it felt _good_. 

“Whoa,” Mark heard Jackson gaping at him. Mark didn’t turn around to look at the others, didn’t look at Jinyoung as he felt his searing and unnerving stare on him. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, burning holes at the back of his head, but he ignored them and the heavy hammering of his heart. 

“You asshole,” Jae-Sun grimaced in pain as he looked up at him with a dirty glare, “You broke my nose, you fucking bitch! What are you now? His dog?”

“Don’t.” Jinyoung whispered, tugging at his hood, but Mark barely registered that as epinephrine propelled his legs to surge forward. 

Before he knew it, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist as they tried to pull Mark off of Jae-Sun who was straddling him, landing punch after punch as shouts broke out. Someone was yelling at him to stop as he teared him away from Jae-Sun, dragging him away to a safe distance as Mark struggled against the person’s grasp, red seeping through his warped, disfigured vision. That feeling he didn’t know the name of was anger.What he felt was pure anger, clawing at his chest, igniting his limbs ablaze in a fury of uninhibited fervency. His apprehension contorted into all-consuming anger, flaring in his wide eyes that flickered with resentment. It wasn’t only Jae-Sun’s malicious words that had sent him off--no, it was the pent-up emotions that were pouring and flooding him the moment he first hit him. The unexpressed emotions were inundating the empty spaces and he couldn’t control them--couldn’t control his body from purging all those buried emotions and the sparked anger, and it felt satisfying to channel such hatred onto somebody else that could receive the physical forms of his mangled emotions. His focus was on Jae-Sun and no one else--he couldn’t hear the yells and the barking of voices--he was heated with exasperation and anger and vexation and truculence to hear all those ill words spewing from an outsider’s mouth that didn’t know anything at all he didn’t know anything and he had the nerve to utter such fucking bullshit from his nasty mouth he deserved it he deserved it he deserved--

“Mark,” Jinyoung’s voice ringed through his head, his mouth inches away from his ear, and that was when Mark realized that Jinyoung was holding him back, “Mark, stop. Stop.”

A sharp intake of breath dispersed the distortion from his vision. He blinked a few times as he slumped against the body behind him that was holding him up, the energy drained from him when he realized the damage he’s done. Jae-Sun was nursing his bruised face in apparent agony, his blurry-faced friends helping and shielding him away. The crowd had backed away, faces twisted in fear and shock. Jackson was shoving someone away from him, yelling something incoherent but obviously incriminating before Jaebum and the brown-haired boy pulled him away before he could make matters worse. Mark could still hear his heart pounding in his ears, but his breathing slowed. His arms and shoulders and legs trembled. His hand hurt. 

Mark should apologize. He really should--he didn’t mean to hurt someone--he just--he was just _angry_. 

The arms around him softened, the tight grip loosening into a hovering touch. “When I let go of you, promise me you won’t hurt him.” 

Jae-Sun sat up with the help of his friends, cursing and spluttering in furious words, but Mark couldn’t quite comprehend, his mind still a jumble in aftershock and confusion. 

“Mark.” Jinyoung repeated, tugging at his hood, “Did you hear me?” 

“Yeah, I did. I promise.” Mark breathed, “Trust me.” 

Mark felt his evident hesitation. _Fuck, I shouldn't have said that_. However, his arms slowly reclined, letting him go. Mark stood there for a long moment before his legs started moving towards Jae-Sun, his steps slow and demure. Jaebum was about to stop him, assuming that he was going in for another round, but Jinyoung stopped him and shook his head. Once Jae-Sun noticed that Mark was approaching him, his face twisted into a snarl and his friends visibly paled. They looked angry and terrified at the same time, but they didn’t move, body stiff and rigid in anticipation. Mark was tired, though. He didn’t want to fight. 

He hated parties.

“Don’t ever use someone’s past against them. He’s not Junior anymore.” His voice was quiet, but his eyes were hardened into a dark intensity that wasn’t there before, forcing Jae-Sun to meet eyes with his cold gaze. His expression softened, however, as he took a step backwards and bowed slightly, “I’m sorry I broke your face.”

Mark walked away before he could listen to Jae-Sun’s response. Everyone was staring at him. He felt his heart leap into his throat and he looked down immediately, until he felt a tug on his sleeve, and he looked up. 

“We’re leaving.” Jinyoung said, tugging him again before he led him through the crowd, following behind Jaebum and the brunette who was shoving Jackson along after they apologized to the owner of the house for causing such a violent commotion. 

Once they were outside, Mark quickly took in a fresh breath of air that cooled his lungs and calmed his nerves down. They started walking down the steps of the porch when Jinyoung had let go of him, and the presence beside him was that of the brunette, who was holding a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a paper towel--someone must have handed it to him in the midst of the chaos. It took a minute for Mark to realize that he was offering it to him.

“Oh,” Mark dumbly said as he gingerly took the ice, placing it on his bruised and swelling hand, where he immediately hissed in pain and almost dropped it from how badly it hurt. He managed a weak, “thanks”, remembering his manners. 

“Are they broken?” The brunette motioned at his hand, “Your knuckles, I mean.” 

He flexed his hand gently, testing it out. He was able to move every finger, and didn’t feel a grinding sensation, which meant that there were no bones broken but was just badly bruised. “No, nothing’s broken.” He looked up when he heard Jackson’s hyena laughter, jarringly shrill in the night as they hit the sidewalk. Jaebum was talking with Jinyoung, but Mark couldn’t make out what they were saying, since they spoke too quietly. 

“That’s good.” The young man smiled brightly before he extended a hand towards Mark, “We haven’t been properly introduced yet, but I heard a lot good things about you! I’m Choi Youngjae.” 

“Uh.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Youngjae laughed nervously, taking his hand back when he realized Mark couldn’t shake his hand since both of his hands were occupied. Mark smiled, hoping that it didn’t look too strange on his face that tingled with numbness. 

“It’s okay. I’m Mark Tuan. It’s nice to meet you.” His smile turned sheepish as his eyes lowered to the ground, their shoes scuffing against the concrete ground. He kicked a pebble out of the way as he haphazardly and lightly dabbed at his hand with the ice and winced, “I’m sorry you had to see that--see _me_ like that. It was a bad first impression.”

“Pfft!” Youngjae flippantly waved his hand around, “I could care less about that. Jae-Sun deserved it at the end of the day. He was being an A-level SSS douchebag. I don’t even know why Jackson hyung befriended that jerk in the first place. I’m kinda glad you punched the living daylights out of him.” He grinned, and he reminded Mark of the sun, with how his smile and laughter carried the warmth and airiness of the light, blinding with positivity that could easily brighten and unwind the tension. Mark smiled in response, relieved that Youngjae didn’t think low of him. 

“Wow, Mark!” Jackson whooped, tripping over himself as he turned around to grin devilishly at him, “I didn’t know you had it in you! That son of a bitch shoulda seen it coming! I’m so fucking proud! This calls for another celebration!” He cackled in glee, clapping his hands before his shoe caught in a hole in the pavement and tripped, clumsily falling onto the ground face first with a drunken yelp, laying there with an inelegant sprawl. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jaebum cursed, jogging towards him as he bent down, nudging him with his toe when Jackson didn’t move, “You are unbelievable. You’re lucky I brought my car today, or else I would’ve dumped your stinkin’ ass in the subway station.” 

“Why did he drink so much?” Youngjae sighed sadly, leaving Mark’s side to help Jaebum. As he did so, Jinyoung replaced the brunette, standing beside Mark as he eyed him warily. His stare was unnerving. Unabashed. It was making him nervous. 

“Give me that.” Jinyoung snatched the ice away from Mark’s grasp. He grabbed his hand and, without hesitating, settled the ice pack harshly onto his bruised hand. It was unexpected and Mark didn’t even have the time to prepare himself and he violently flinched from the pain, biting his lip to restrain himself from cursing until he could taste the iron in his mouth, coating his palate. 

“That hurt,” Mark hissed. 

“Well,” Jinyoung said nonchalantly, “I bet his face hurts more. You did quite a number on him.” His eyes flickered upwards to meet Mark’s, his expression indiscernible. 

“Yeah, I did.” Mark’s voice was small. He was unable to meet Jinyoung’s eyes, so he settled on the sight in front of him. Jackson was murmuring an inebriated rant as Jaebum attempted to haul him up from the ground. Meanwhile, Youngjae was videotaping the whole process with his phone, presumably for blackmail, bubbling with bright-eyed laughter. 

“You got angry.” 

“I did.”

“You didn’t stop.” 

“I didn’t.”

A pause. “Why?” 

“Because you weren’t going to hit him. So I did.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking.”

“He was--” His breath hitched as he stared down at their hands, wetting his lips as he tried to convey his words to the point where it makes sense enough for the both of them, “He was being ignorant. He didn’t know you--he _doesn’t_. He knows who you _were_ but he doesn’t know who you are _now_. He didn’t have the right to say all those things as if he _understood_ you. I just-- I don’t know. It just happened.”

“And _you_ understand me?” There was a challenge in his tone. 

“I know you better than him.” Mark said, “He badmouthed you. He badmouthed your family.”

“Idiot,” Jinyoung muttered, “You didn’t need to defend me. Guys like him are all show and no substance.” 

“I can never fight for myself, but for others, I can.”

Jinyoung stilled, eyebrows furrowing in contemplation as he lifted the ice bag to let his hand breathe a bit, “You know who I got the nickname ‘Junior’ from?”

“From your peers?” Mark guessed. 

“No.” Jinyoung said, “From my dad.” He cracked a bitter smile as he reminisced, “He called me that all the time, ever since I could remember. It never left. Junior, Junior, Junior. Junior, the son who’d follow after his father’s footsteps; the son who’ll end up as an addict and a beater, just like his own old man. It was meant to be, I suppose, but then he got his own ass locked up. Seeing that happen kind of woke me up.” 

“You’ll never be like your dad.” Mark said. He was surprised to hear how much belief his voice held as he met Jinyoung’s eyes. It was hard--always hard to look at people in the eye, but with him, it was different. A weird different that was hard to describe but easy for him to do. He gets lost in them easily. 

“How do you know that?” Jinyoung scoffed, vitriol trailing after his words.

His chest was fluttering with that _something_ again as he spoke, the words flowing through him without much thought, as though there were still remnants of adrenaline propelling him to be bold in his voice, or maybe it was Jaebum's words that lingered at the back of his mind that pushed him, “Maybe you’ve been told all your life that you’ll never be anything but a clone of your father. Maybe you believed them. But you’re here now, aren’t you? You’re living as Jinyoung, not Junior, and that’s enough proof that you’ve strayed away from his path, because at the end of the day, nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.” 

Mark didn’t know that he had been inching closer and closer and was now suddenly aware of their close proximity, how they were inches apart but didn’t pull away. He could feel Jinyoung’s cold breath on his face, the winter air piquing at their skin as their clothes billowed along the movement of the wind. His mind was blank as his eyes slowly flitted from his eyes, dark with rotund gleams reflected from the lights of the neighborhood houses, his nose and his lips, softly shaped and slightly parted. He was treading through a volatile territory, staying so close to him without inhibition, eyes locked in a prolonged gaze and unsullied tension. It wasn’t until the jarring sounds of fireworks exploding knocked the both of them out of their daze. They both separated almost immediately and jumped back, as if they had touched fire, and quickly recoiled back into their respective personal spaces before anyone could see them. The others hadn’t noticed them, too busy with Jackson’s drunken antics, until the fireworks had captured all of their attention. 

“Happy New Years!” Jackson screeched, bouncing on his feet as he laughed, throwing his hands in the air in festive joviality. In his intoxicated state, he leaped towards their direction as he dragged Jaebum and Youngjae with him, crushing all of them into a tight embrace, cheering. “What a great way to end the year! Let’s make even more better memories and kick some more ass! Whoo!” 

Colourful, vibrants bursts of colours filled the sky in a cacophonous symphony, shimmering in a flashy brightness as the cheers from the neighbors filled the quiet night. Mark watched in awe at the sight of the dark sky being painted with such lively colours, glittering like stars hidden behind the clouds that welcomed the world to another year of longevity. He felt his mouth stretch into a honest smile as he felt the warmth emanate from the bodies huddling with him--from his _friends_ \--and the fact that he didn’t spend the celebration alone like he always did, he felt nice. The tingling feeling of happiness was odd and exciting and it made him feel warm. The cold disappeared from the weave of his skin, and it made him forget about the pain in his heart and in his hand. 

He felt like laughing, too, so he did, as Jinyoung silently watched him. 

\---------

Mark finally arrived home after he thanked Jaebum for the ride, able to hear the bickering from inside the car as he went into the complex.

(“Ah, hyung, I left my book back in the house. Turn the car around, please.”)

(“Are you fucking serious? I have a fucking drunkard with the mental capacity spanning from a 5-year old to a 73-year old sitting in the backseat, about to hurl his fucking brains out in a matter of seconds. We are not going back there.”)

(“In all due respect, your car’s already a piece of junk, so it wouldn’t matter if he made it more of a junk, would it? I need my book, so turn the fucking car around, or else he won’t be the only one hurling his fucking brains out.”)

(“Screw you, Park Jinyoung.”)

 

Mark clambered onto his bed after he closed the door behind him, fatigue settling in the grooves of his bones, a lingering pain barraging his chest. He kept the ice on his bruised hand which helped with the swelling and numbed the pain. He was tired, his body was on the brink of shutting down, the weight of emotional turmoil taking a toll on him, but his mind was ignited with an unsteady wide-awakeness. He stared up at the ceiling, the room still dark, dimly lit from the fireworks exploding in the sky that elicited hued shadows to shine through the windows, the crackling of each burst bouncing off the walls of his small apartment. 

He couldn’t think properly. When was the last time he had been angry--fully angry at someone else and not _himself_? He’s never even punched someone before. He didn’t even get angry at the people who had uttered ill things about him. Instead, he had embraced them, their words piercing him and clouding him in darkness and hatred wired to direct all negativity to himself. But this time, all those pent-up emotions, the distraught that had been sparked from Jae-Sun’s pettiness--the walls he had built to suppress such notion quickly collapsed like a wilted flower. He didn’t know whether to be proud, terrified, mortified, or all three. However, he thought about Jinyoung, his arms around him and his hands on his own and his breath against his ear. He couldn’t fight for himself, yet he was able to fight for _him_. It all further confused him; burying the feelings he didn't want to recognize for a while only made it worse when he finally felt it ripple through his skin and hammer against his chest. He was muddled, perturbed, apprehensive amidst a discomfiture, and frankly, he was terrified. 

Mark took out his phone, unlocking it as he scrolled down his small contact’s list. A person came into mind and he was hesitant, but Mark wanted to believe that despite the lack of contact they kept, waned from their daily lives taking hold of their time, they were still friends. He would be able to help Mark, help him through what the turbulence he was experiencing, because he knew best. He dialed the number and waited patiently, closing his eyes. 

There was a click. Mark held his breath. A familiar, warm rich voice filled his ear, “Hello?” 

He wondered what time it was in New York. 

“Hey,” Mark smiled, “BamBam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOHOO i hope u all liked this chapter. took lots of tears for this one because my break is over in, like, 2 days and my writing block is still as strong as my stress pimples.  
> (btw Jae-Sun (and Jae-Eun) is just a random name i got from the internet and nobody in real life, although i'm pretty sure that's obvious ;;)  
> i just love italicizing stuff.  
> happy new year, everyone! and thanks so much for reading once again! ur comments and love fuel my motivation. ❤
> 
> Edit: I'll be focused on school for a little bit so the update will be pushed back until I can get my shit together! :'D Hopefully that won't take long! It's like a short hiatus but I'm definitely continuing.


	12. i hate you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things come into light. kinda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back!! updates will be irregular but thank you all for understanding!!  
> thank you for reading!! i honestly don't know if this came out as i wanted it to be?? like more will be explained in the next chapter but aw man.

Tapestries of budding foliage and blooming florets hinged on sturdy branches towered over him as he walked along the path between a field of grass, the chilly sunny skies draping over the landscape as he felt the wind beat against the bushes. It wasn’t as cold anymore, yet springtide hasn’t fully arrived. Although his healing hands were dry and red and his nose was dripping by the time he reached past the garden of the park, he found the piercing air still refreshing, filling his lungs with a crisp gelidity that allowed him to breathe and think. Right, to think. He didn’t know what to think. 

Mark stopped in his tracks as he reached down and picked up a leaf, brown outlining the edges as tiny holes bore through the center. It was a remnant of a tree’s attire, one that had fallen down in the midst of a changing season, and thousands and millions would keep on falling as the world kept rotating and the sun kept shining. But it was still here, in the present despite being trampled by the soles of detached human beings. It was still intact, albeit the impurities and flaws it projected, but nonetheless, its existence was just as valid as a flower’s fallen petal and a broken branch torn apart from its body. He remembers something he’d mention to BamBam.

(( _“And how do you know that? How do you know that he won’t regress back to his old ways, back to how he used to terrorize people and found enjoyment as he watched them cower before him?” He sounded unexpectedly calm, “You seem to forget all the pain he’s inflicted upon you too and the fact that he outspokenly told you that he won’t ever trust you again in the first place when you guys saw each other again. Are you just going to pretend nothing happened at all? Pretend that he didn’t hurt other people, including me, too? Forgive him and forget? You’re too kind for your own good, Mark. It’s inconceivable that a brute like him could change his ways.”_

 _Mark shifted to his side on his bed, staring at the dormant bookshelf as he let his chest rise and fall in tandem, “You should know that kindness does not equate to gullibility, Bam. You of all people should know.”_ ))

Mark let the leaf fall from his hands as he continued his walk. He could see families surrounding the playground, the elderly public gathered on a certain sunspot of the grass field to practice a calm sequence of tai chi. He heard kids scream and yell and rollicking laughter fill his ears and his heart to the brim with a certain longing and sadness, and a little bit of happiness, to hear the joy in the voices of those children. Will he ever be happy without a lingering ghost of sadness? He didn’t know. How can one know the prospects of one’s sadness? Perhaps, there was something unique about such melancholy, so unique that it was futile to ever wish for happiness to replace it. It was an unlikeliness that was likely to make the heart heavy but the mind clear, so clear that you could count the minuscule phosphenes blurring behind closed eyelids. 

Mark stopped when he reached a particular proximity of his destination. He saw the bench, saw the man who was sitting on it while holding his bag on his lap, a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck to the point of almost covering half of his face. He saw his dark hair tousled by the wind and his hands tucked into his pockets. He saw him, letting his eyes trace the feathery lineaments of his face, the focus of his eyes and the quiet, sullen beauty of his sharp features. He felt his breath get caught in his throat when Jinyoung looked up, and they were suddenly staring, when finally, Mark remembered how to breathe. He approached the bench and took a tentative seat beside him. It’s been two weeks since he’d last seen Jinyoung. He shouldn’t be this nervous, should he? 

“Hi,” Mark said. 

“Hey,” Jinyoung said, eyes flickering to his knuckles that was a fading yellow, “how’s your hand?”

“Better.” He answered shortly. Jinyoung nodded and looked away. He shifted in his seat, clutching his bag. 

“So,” Jinyoung spoke up after a string of silence, “are you just going to stare off into space the whole day or are you going to let me know why you called me out here? Or specifically, you asking Jackson to tell me to meet you here.” 

“I talked to BamBam,” Mark got straight to point, now that he was put on the spot. Jinyoung didn’t answer him, didn’t react at all, “it’s Kunpimoo--”

“I know who BamBam is.” Jinyoung cut him off, “Is there a reason why you’re telling me this?” 

“Yeah,” Mark said quietly, “he told me everything.” 

(( _“Word got out fast in that kind of neighborhood. Everybody knew what his dad had been doing to him, with all the bruises and injuries he sustained sometimes that didn’t seem like he got from typical gang fight. Everybody knew that his dad was arrested for killing someone as well. Jinyoung still went to school though, after he got discharged from the hospital, but he had to live with his uncle, who I assumed was just as bad. He didn’t change much, but he got angrier-- a lot more angrier, especially after he had to stand in trial and go against his own father to lock him up. But one day he just-- stopped. Just stopped. Didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t bother to chase anyone, didn’t even look at anyone. His gang broke up too, and they didn’t cause any trouble after that. It was only on his graduation day did he ever talk to someone, and that someone was me._

_I didn’t mention it to you at that time because you were still adjusting to your new life, your new home, and you weren’t doing so great. I didn’t want to, you know, reopen any old wounds, I guess. But he-- he, on his own graduation day, with stupid bandages on his face, apologized to me. You need to remember how much pain he caused for everyone, so it was only understandable that I didn’t believe him or forgive him. You can’t blame me, can you? He hurt my friends and they had to leave because of him. He hurt _you_. Of course I was still angry.” _

_“He apologized to you?” That was all Mark could hear echo in his ears._

_“Yeah. He apologized.” BamBam’s voice became softer, the background in his line a lot more quieter now, which meant he must have relocated himself, “I didn’t-- I didn’t know what to say. He even asked about you, but his face never changed, always so stone-cold and so expressionless. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, especially when he-- he said that he didn’t mind if I didn’t forgive him or accept his apology. He just wanted to make things right so that he can move past it, and possibly that one day, when I’ve seen how much he’s changed by chance, I’ll think differently._ )) 

“You didn’t tell me you talked to him.” Mark said as he fiddled with his fingers, eyes lost but his mind pulsating with anticipation. 

“Didn’t think I would have to.” Jinyoung responded with an edge to his voice, “Why did you talk to him about that, of all things? Was my vulnerability that entertaining to point of calling your _friend_ , whom you haven’t spoken to for-- what? Months? To relive another instance of my disclosure of weakness?” 

(( _“I scoffed at that. Him? Change? He was a monster in my eyes, the kind that could never let go of his one’s ego for a second to admit wrong. Even though he apologized, I was still angry and obstinate about it. I was just like everyone else, who thought he’d end up just like his father. I’m guilty of it. But Mark, if what you said is really true, that he’s really really changed, that he’s in college studying, tutoring kids in some learning centre he works at, smiling, letting himself get his ass kicked just because he doesn’t fight anymore-- that violence isn’t part of the language he speaks and he’s _okay_ now, to the point of you punching some asshole’s face just to defend him? Then I trust your judgment.”_ ))

“No,” Mark shook his head, looking at his own hands as he felt the ghosts of Jinyoung’s arms wrap around him the other day, the emanating warmth of his body pressed against his back, “I just wanted to know. He told me on his own, anyways, when I told him that you’ve changed, that your eyes don’t look like blades ready to cut or like the kind that were conditioned to instill fear. Your eyes remind me of mine, but brighter and with more resolve, something I don’t have.” 

Jinyoung turned his head away without a response. They delved into another rickety silence, one that made Mark’s heart burst with a certain apprehension. There was another reason why he wanted to talk to Jinyoung, but he didn’t know if he could truly convey it through words. It was strange. The lines between their friendship was blurry and incomprehensible, and it confused him and also filled him with a gentle and placid warmth. 

Mark looked up at the sky, vibrantly blue and streaked with white clouds, the sun shining in his peripheral vision. He closed his eyes, letting himself breathe in deeply and out, before he opened them up again, at the tiny dots he could see in sheer daylight, “Can I ask you something?” 

Jinyoung didn’t say anything, merely hummed. 

“Do you hate your dad?” He felt Jinyoung tense beside him at the sudden question regarding his family. Family was a sensitive issue, a topic rarely grazed and touched upon in this frail relationship between them. 

“I do,” Jinyoung said, tight-lipped. 

“Do you think you’ll ever forgive him?” Mark asked, “Not now, but in the future. In the far far future, maybe. Do you think you can see yourself forgiving him? Forgiving him for all the things he’s done?” 

For a second, Mark thought that maybe he’s gone too far, with how heavy the silence was. Jinyoung’s dad, after all, was a bad man. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. Mark thought so too. Mark just wanted to know if the poison of a grudge was still eating Jinyoung up from the inside out, if his rage towards his father was still very alive and very much brutal, toxic enough to make himself ill. 

“I don’t know.” His answer was unexpected. Mark glanced at his face, waned into something like that of fatigue, and Mark didn’t prod any further. Instead, he faced the sky again, letting his limbs relax into his seat, trying to keep his voice stable as he turned the attention to himself.

“I miss my dad.” He saw Jinyoung turn to him at the corner of his eye, but Mark continued anyways, wondering where he was going with this, “I miss my-- “ He took in a deep breath, “brother too. It’s funny, really, how you don’t know if you can forgive your father, and how I don’t know if I can forgive my own mother too.” 

“Your mom?” He muttered.

“Yeah,” Mark sadly smiled, “she hurt us in a different way.” 

His mother had always been a cold, distant person.

Wendy Tuan was a perfectionist who wanted a picture-perfect family. She was a small, dainty-framed woman with a harsh voice, a sweet face but a cutthroat attitude whose gaze could pierce through every wall you’ve built, exposing the faults of your existence as you cower before her dictatorial presence. She was an overwhelming figure, a neurotic woman who didn’t like her detailed plans to be shamelessly interrupted by unnecessary nuisances. She had been a puppet herself, the nastiness of her character carved by a childhood of emotionally crippled parents who instilled the old-fashioned traditions of being borderline abusive, bamboo sticks and belts and hangers leaving red welts against tanned skin mementos of her youth. It was all about discipline, all about succeeding in academics and in life, all about money and money and never about disappointing. Perhaps failure had been a traumatic experience for her, encircled by dread and fear and a parent’s rage, which would explain her natural propensities to tear at her own hair and at other people at the thought of it. 

Mark was nothing she had expected. Never got good grades. Never excelled in classes. Never got on honours. Never got recognized. He wasn’t smart, outgoing, or charismatic. Mark was quieter, the one who rarely spoke unless being spoken to, the one who had a hard time connecting with his peers and making friends, unable to open up so swiftly to strangers who were prone to judging him. No friends meant no connections, no connections meant no opportunities, no opportunities meant no offers, no offers meant no success, no success meant complete failure. He was an unexpected child--a mistake who was brought into this world his mother had expressed fervently in his face plenty of times she had regretted doing. It was all because of his father and his persuasion that Mark was still crawling on this god forsaken planet. 

It was fine, really. 

Mark’s used to it. He’s used to being neglected, being ignored because he isn’t good enough and brought shame to his family. He’s used to the lack of new clothes and gifts and presents and how his mother would deliberately forget to make him dinner. He’s used to the veneer their family puts on in front of the public, displaying their cloned smiles and happy, prosperous domesticity when in reality, they were weaved into a convoluted web of hovering antipathy and irresolvable toxicity. He’s used to the idea that he’ll never be like his brother, who was a social butterfly that fluttered towards different groups and leeched off of numbers for future connections. He was intelligent and smart and handsome, someone who had both the brains and the looks and could get anywhere in life. He was kind too, but passive in a way, as he would silently watch Mark be torn from the inside out from his mother’s vicious words before comforting him. Essentially, he was the next breadwinner of the family. He carried the weight of his mother’s expectations on his shoulders with a bright, fake smile on his face, only for it to warp into a blank lifeless look as his cadaver floated in the red sea of their bathtub. 

Everything seemed simpler from a distance, from an outsider’s point of view. 

Unexpressed emotions never die. Jaebum was right. Even as he choked on the ugly emotions threatening to spill, only to swallow it all back down into his churning stomach, even as his mother took her despicable anger and insurmountable grief out on him from his father’s death--his father, who loved Mark despite his wife’s inexplicable hatred and gave him light and warmth and hope in the swamp of darkness he found himself all alone in, even if he went along with sweeping all of their fucked up problems underneath the mat--even as his mother became a gruesomely hollow void and wished that he was the one who had died in place of his brother, those embedded grotesque emotions would never wane. They’d rise to the surface in a rapid pace amidst a thunderous storm, and Mark would be torn apart once again, just like how his emotions manifested into a violence he didn’t know he had been capable of. 

Ever since he liberated himself with catharsis through aggression, he felt as though his feelings were much more profound than ever. The hole in his chest was filled up with more--feeling, and he didn’t know if letting himself go free for once was supposed to have an unpleasant but exhilarating aftermath. It made him unable to breathe sometimes and sink to the floor when he couldn’t handle them, and all he wanted to do was feel empty again and not so vulnerable, but at the end of the day, he realized that he’d been numbing his painful emotions all this time, without being aware that he was numbing the positive emotions as well.

Mark watched as a pair of noisy kids came running past them, toys in hand as their mother trailed behind them with a fond look. “My mother-- I haven’t spoken to her in a very long time. In a way, I haven’t forgiven her or myself, and I know that she won’t forgive me either way.”

“Do you always talk this much?” Jinyoung asked solemnly, eyebrows drawn together in consternation.

“Only with you.” Mark smiled a bit forlornly as he looked down, interlocking his hands together and placed it on his hand, whispering, “Always only with you.” 

“What does this have to do with BamBam?” 

(( _“I think you’ve changed, Mark. In a good way, I mean. The Mark that I’ve been speaking to months ago wouldn’t have punched someone in the face in order to protect a former gang leader whom you’ve made up with in some sense, open up to your friends-- even if it’s bit by bit-- you’ve made other than trusting in the cracked ceiling of your apartment, and initiate a phone call with _me_. You sound better, Mark. I wish I was there to contribute to that kind of growth you’ve made.” _

_“You did--you _do_. I-- I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t you reaching out to me that time.” Mark grasped his phone tightly in his hand. “I just-- defending someone-- it’s what friends do, right?” _

_“You didn’t do that when I got beat up, though.” BamBam’s words were harsh, but his tone was warm and lighthearted, and he was even laughing. “You’ve never gotten into a fight at all until now.”_

_“BamBam--”_

_“I’m just joking, Mark. I know what you mean.” Mark could hear the smile in his voice, “But judging from what I heard-- you know, are you guys really just friends?”_

_“It’s… complicated.” Mark said, “I don’t-- it’s weird. I don’t know. I’m not sure if we’re anything at all.”_

_“He’s-- done some questionable things for you. And you’ve done some questionable things for him. Friends, especially non-friends in your case, don't do that.” BamBam said, voice suddenly low, “I’m just-- look, I just want to ask--”_ ))

“Not much. I just wanted to let you know that if you hold a grudge, you’ll become like my mother.” Mark bitterly smiled, “But I don’t have to worry, do I? You’re in peace with just the fact that he’s out of your life.”

“Idiot,” Jinyoung smirked, voice lacking any bite as he said that, “why would you worry about something as stupid as that?”

“I know.” Mark fiddled with his sleeves, “I was just sorting out some feelings too, that’s all.”

“Feelings?”

“Can I ask you something else?” Mark could hear his heart hammering against the roof of his chest, thrumming with overwhelming trepidation and unfamiliarity and a faint trace of confusion, “Are we friends?” 

(( _“Do you have feelings for him?”_ )) 

Mark didn’t know. He’s never asked himself that before, nor did that possibility ever pop up in his mind. He just-- let things happen without an interference. At that time, it stunned him into a state of silence until BamBam had to yell in his ear to get his attention back. Feelings? For Jinyoung? How could Mark distinguish such feelings between like or amity? Reconciliation or intimacy? But would that explain the gust of warm pooling in the holes of his heart, shaping into a figure to fill in the emptiness that’d make his chest flutter with something indecipherable, something gentle that made him feel calm, that left him in a buzz of confusion because he didn’t know what this _feeling_ was. Would that explain the niceties he’s perceived? The way Jinyoung read him so quickly from the fact that he remembered all his nervous propensities and habits, the way he didn’t touch him but grabbed his clothes to get his attention instead when he had noticed the first time how much he flinched whenever he came in contact with something, always regarding him so cautiously, pinpointing his comforts and discomforts; how he always knew what to say to him-- always indirect and vague but meaningful enough to leave a long-lasting impact. 

Mark remembered the diner, how angry he had felt when that asshole spoke as though he had knew Jinyoung for a long time, how ill he felt whenever others would misunderstand him, how his heart would stutter every time he’d see his genuine smiles that made his eyes crinkle like whiskers. His bouts of sincerity, the softness in his movements, the drive he has, the humility he’s learned to embody, his calm voice that had been able to lull him into a sleep in the midst of his own storm, how they’d look at each other with a quiet intensity, a tension that both didn’t fully fathom as they dealt with their own turmoil. 

_“It’s a good thing that old man Seung-hyun hired you after that, right?”_

The unexpected kindness. The strange liberation Mark had when he’d be around him, feeling as though he could talk to him without the fear of messing up, of being thrown into a cage to be judged at. He could feel calm around him. He grounded him, in a way. 

Mark’s never had a partner before. Mark understood how it felt like to be loved though, from his father and brother, even if it had been a flawed system of affection. The concept of love was far from it. It wasn’t love, at least not yet, but it was something else friendship couldn’t exactly carry. The unspoken understanding between them was a quality that pairs could never dig up from buried sand. It was comforting. It wasn’t something that would save him-- no, Mark didn’t need that. He knew better. That wasn't something this odd relationship was built on. He’d always be nothing, always an infinitesimal speck of dust floating around in the universe without a zealous purpose, but he was just as valid as a broken branch and a fallen petal and a dead leaf. Maybe he’d learn to forgive himself with the help of another. He’s fine on his own at times, but there are moments where he doesn’t want to rely on someone else to make him feel better, but he realized that maybe having a shoulder to lean on wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Then at the very least, in his heart, he’d know that he was not truly and utterly alone. 

So, when the revelation settled into the crooks of his brain, there was no denial. No panic. No terror. No internalized conflict. 

Just serenity. 

It was a kind of feeling that burst in his chest, something so beautiful and big that it ached. 

Jinyoung didn’t answer. It looked as though he was contemplating on his answer, weighing the blurry answer on the tip of his tongue. 

That was okay. Mark continued.

“Then are we something else?” 

(( _“Just remember to put yourself first too. Kindness doesn’t mean being naive, but it doesn’t mean you have to invalidate yourself for the sake of others.”_ ))

Mark doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jinyoung react so fast. Jinyoung had turned around and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, gripping the fabric tightly as his eyes narrowed into a glare, a cold darkness permeating the irises as he gritted his teeth, a kind of petulance eliciting from the tension in his shoulders and the trembling of his fists. 

“Are you _joking_ around right now?” He spoke through bared teeth, “Is that why you called me out here? To play some kind of prank?” 

Why Jinyoung thought he was joking, Mark didn’t understand. He wasn’t the type to joke around. 

Mark let his hand hover above Jinyoung’s own that was fisted in his collar, inches away from touching him. He saw Jinyoung flicker his eyes towards it, “I’m not joking. You know that.” 

“You know I don’t trust you.”

“Didn’t seem like that at the party.” 

“We’re not friends.”

“Are we something else then?”

“You’re just confused.”

“I was. But I did a lot of thinking and the only thing I’m confused with is you.”

He said with a simmering, “I hate you.” 

Mark let his hand fall on top of Jinyoung’s when his grip around his collar loosen, “I know.”

But Jinyoung couldn’t accept it. He pulled his hand away like he had been burned and stood up immediately, disbelief and indignation and traces of uncertainty etched into his expression, as though he couldn’t comprehend the situation at hand nor could he articulate his thoughts well, “You don’t understand the weight of your words. You just- you don’t-- _understand_. Think harder and you’ll come to realize what a fool you are. Whatever you talked about with BamBam, it’s not what you think it is. You don’t just-- you don’t realize that in _two_ fucking weeks.” 

“You’re not rejecting me, though.” Mark let his hands fall back onto his lap. “I understand that nobody understands me, but I can’t be someone that I’m not. And if I’m someone that doesn’t mind being something else with you, then that’s okay.” 

“You don’t get it, do you?” Jinyoung rummaged through his bag fervently, “You just don’t know how you-- fuck.” He stopped himself as he took out a plain, thin hardcover book in the colour of dark blue, no design and no lamination, just a bare and smooth surface. He tossed it carelessly to Mark, who caught it in surprise before it could land on the ground, and spoke with an urgency in his tone, “You’re _unbelievable_ , you know that? You don't just spring this on someone. You don't have the right to do that.” 

Mark cradled the book in his hands with curiosity before he looked up, "It's okay if you hate me. If that's what you want to tell yourself."

"Fuck you," he said before he stormed off with vehement steps, running away, getting further and further until he’s a tiny dot in his vision just like a tiny dot in the sky, like all the people who's escaped his grasp and somehow disappeared off into an unreachable distance. 

There was something odd in Jinyoung’s countenance, in the incredulous lilt of his voice. It wasn’t outright disgust or a disapproving notion, but something that of disbelief, like he couldn’t believe it. As though he thought that this kind of possibility would never happen as they stood in juxtaposition, tethered by each other’s presences and past. Perhaps Mark went ahead of himself, didn’t think of it thoroughly. He hadn’t considered Jinyoung’s thoughts on this as well, too focused on likelihood of his feelings being a lie warped by the twisted curves of his mind. But then again, although his mind may be plagued by monsters of his childhood and the vision of a crimson-streaked brother, he knew that the warmth he had felt from Jinyoung was different from the warmth of his father. 

Mark looked down at the book, hesitantly regarding it before flipping open the pages as he skimmed what was inside.

“Oh.”

 _Despair_. It must have been Jinyoung’s copy, because there was a tiny message on the very first page.

“ _This should make it easier to understand._ ”

There were pencil markings on every single page of the book. Sentences and paragraphs were circled, branched off to the side with meanings and explanations, and he even marked important passages to take note of as he progressed further through the book. There were notes and comments that helped clarified things as well. All the handwriting was scribbled, but it was decipherable to the eye. 

Mark didn’t know how long he sat there staring at it, but he knew that his feelings were not a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> their HAIR though


	13. there's enough space for you in my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEH

_“I hate you.”_

Jinyoung truly, genuinely, passionately meant that. 

Where did the nerve even come from? The bravery, the boldness, the dauntlessness? From where in that weak heart of a melancholic soul externalized such gallantry to scatter suggestive words, of niceties that was not simple to comprehend, especially for someone as absent-minded as him? But then again, Mark had always been too knowing, too perceptive and insightful, and that’s what Jinyoung hated the most. He hated everything about him-- hated how comforting he made Jinyoung felt, hated how Mark could soothe the uneasiness and the perpetuating residues of anger residing in him with his soft, sincere words, hated how his smile looked too weary for someone young as him and forgave him with tender candidness. He hated how, even now, he still made Jinyoung confused in both the heart and mind, and Jinyoung wasn’t the type of individual to be construed as _uncertain._

Jinyoung’s built walls upon layers and layers to cover himself up, but Mark had always been the one to stir something in him, to gently shed each slab of protective walls to see a fragment of his true self. 

He hated how vulnerable and soft he became around Mark. He hated the inscrutability of him, the inability to fathom his thoughts and the intentions behind his actions. He was confusing, just so confusing, to the point that Jinyoung couldn’t stand to be in his presence that he had to _run away_ , and Jinyoung hated that-- hated _him._

With a vehement gait, he strolled down the corridors of the dorm hall as he headed towards his room. As soon as he reached it, hand curled around the doorknob, he stopped. He heard buoyant laughter behind the door, soft chatter and the pixelated sounds of video games. With a scowl, he opened the door rather aggressively. Their dorm room was rather simple, a commodious space with two beds on opposite sides with inherent desks and shelves, as well as a connected kitchenette with provided appliances. Jaebum’s side of the room was decorated with warm homeliness, collages of pictures taped up onto the cobalt wall, picture frames of family and friends crowding his desk space. In comparison, Jinyoung’s side sparsely held any personal taste, plain and dull, too sullen for vivid life to accompany the place he sleeps and eats in. His eyes landed on the pair of boys hunched over in front of the mini television with a bowl of popcorn placed between them, zealously tapping away on their gaming consoles of an old Nintendo 64. Jaebum glanced up at him without much care, but did a double take when he must have caught his glowering expression, and paused the game much to Youngjae’s dismay. 

“You look weird, Jinyoung hyung,” Youngjae commented flippantly as he shoved a fistful of popcorn into his mouth, flicking a couple stray ones towards Jaebum’s direction and breaking into a fit of giggles. Jinyoung sent a frown towards him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jaebum greeted him, throwing a couple pieces of popcorn back at Youngjae as Jinyoung slammed the door behind him and marched towards his bed, placing his bag on the ground. He headed towards the kitchenette to fill himself a glass of cold water to swallow and dampen the heat of mixed emotions back down.

 _There’s always something wrong with me._ “Nothing,” Jinyoung said through gritted teeth, placing the cup down into the sink. He needed to be alone. There was nothing here that could alleviate the burning sensation in his chest, dripping into the pit of his stomach, writhing and churning. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Jaebum made a move to stand up as soon as he noticed his distraughtness beneath his scowling expression.

“Out.”

Jinyoung didn’t spare the two a glance as he rushed out of his dorm the same way he entered. With a fastened pace, he exited the building and crossed the sidewalk, strolling down the curling path to leave campus. He inhaled the gelid air that sharpened his senses and relieved his lungs, nipping at his skin that tingled with a windy burn. He didn’t know where his legs were taking him, but he had to leave-- had to get his thoughts together-- to have control again.

He didn’t understand him. With his nails digging deep into his palms, he remembers the way Mark would cup his hands in his so gently, unafraid with light touches as he’d clean and tend to his injuries without much expertise, the way he’d look at Jinyoung without a glint of ill feeling, only a soft smile and sad eyes to match, the way he’d switch back and forth between a show of emotion and a shell of vacancy. How he could show so much belief in him and have no belief in him at all, accept raging fists breaking his bones without regret, forgive him with argus-eyed sincerity and fighting someone who spoke with daggers to his past. He never spoke of his truest feelings, yet Jinyoung understood him, could understand the silence between them while being unable to understand him as a whole. Confusing. Just confusing.

Park Jinyoung was a tempest, resilient and elusive, solemn and stoic without the need to show emotion through the mask of dignity he wore. Aggression will always be part of his nature, but it was a subdued element that will stay in the background no matter how much pain it took, even if he had to hurt himself in order to restrain himself from hurting others again. He gave away a quiet confidence, his past persona long forgotten yet still remaining in the sleepless nights, in the dreams laced with beer bottles and bruises, and round brown eyes that were both vacant, lost, but warm. He could smile, he could laugh-- things he still has yet to become accustomed to, as self-hatred lingered around the canvas of his bleak mind. 

He was _strong_ ; he didn’t need to talk to anyone about his troubles, didn’t need anyone to rely on or to burden, didn’t need to purge his emotions through tears or the confessions of unexpressed turmoil, didn’t need to project defeat through his face. He had himself and that was all he needed, right? Even if he had picked up friends and acquaintances along the way, he’ll always have just himself to depend on. A life of violence and embodying violence rendered him into exercising wariness and caution. Though he’s not the same person as before, he couldn’t trust himself to be _too_ comfortable in his own skin. 

Jinyoung was turbulent. He was strong on his own. He didn’t need anyone else. He couldn’t show weakness, not anymore. 

But for the second time in his life, he felt defeat-- something like that of vulnerability permeating the sheath of his bones. And he didn’t know what to do. He hated feeling so inferior.

_“Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.”_

Jinyoung looked down at his palms, at the angry red crescents indented onto his supple flesh. 

“ _You’re not supposed to feel the same way._ ” He let his angry, whispered words hang into the vacant air, undulating into the blue sky that shined a lot brighter than before, but to him, the light merely made his eyes burn and only left a putrid after taste to his mouth, wishing the darkness would just swallow him whole already. 

 

\-----

 

“Jinyoung,” Jackson slid into the seat across from him in the library, leaning his arms against the rotund table scattered with neatly printed notes and worksheets.

“I’m busy.” Jinyoung answered with blunt conciseness, eyes never straying from the bright screen of his laptop. 

“Well, I don’t care,” He huffed, “you haven’t been to the bookstore for a while now. I mean, you always come on the weekends and sometimes even on the weekdays. Plus, you’re acting a hella lot weirder than usual. Did something happen?” There was a hint of concern in his voice, but Jinyoung chose to ignore it-- to ignore the sincerity of it. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a knack for being nosy?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a knack for being an unreasonable jerk?” Jackson fired back. 

“More than I can count.” Jinyoung said wryly.

Jackson sighed, eyes flickering towards the wide windows of the library, the sun shining and the sky clear as the cold season slowly waned into a warmer state, “You know, Mark-- I think he misses talking to you. He doesn’t really show it, not that he shows a lot, but he’s more withdrawn lately when he was just opening up to us. He always looks happier when you’re around, too.” 

Jinyoung let his hands hovering above the keyboard falter for a brief moment, eyes shifting from the screen to Jackson’s face, the solemnity etched onto his bold face. Intaking a shuddering breath, Jinyoung looked back down and proceeded to glare at the word document before his eyes, putting heat into the structure of his words, “Jackson, mind your own business and leave me _alone_. I’m busy.” 

He could feel the frustration vibrate off of Jackson’s tense muscles, and the blonde stood up loudly with clenched fists and his mouth set into a tight-lipped line, “Once you get your shit together, _then_ I’ll mind my own business.” And he turned around and stormed off, his feet accidentally kicking the chair to the side with a jarring scrape, his shoes aggressively scuffing against the floor with every stomp. Jinyoung watched his presence fade, ignoring the inquisitive stares from the other students.

Jinyoung dismissed the sharp discomfort in his chest and continued his work. 

 

\------

 

Youngjae found him sitting on the wide field of grass underneath a tall, gingko tree one afternoon amidst a warm, sunny day, holding a stack of music theory books in his arms. 

“Hyung?” Youngjae abandoned his initial pursuit to bound towards him, setting his large books down and taking a seat beside him, “what’re you doing out here? You usually eat in the canteen with us.” 

“I don’t have an appetite.” Jinyoung replied with a shrug, eyes trailing after subsequent words in his novel that rested on his lap. 

“You don’t seem to have much of an appetite as of lately, though. Are you sure you’re okay?” Youngjae frowned with worry, and Jinyoung was getting agitated with all the concern he heard in people’s voices. 

“Yes. I’m _fine_.” 

“You sound like Mark, now,” Youngjae laughed lightly, and Jinyoung tensed at the mention of him, “seems like he’s rubbing off on you. Jackson hyung told me he has the propensity of saying he’s fine when in reality, he’s not.” 

“You’ve been hanging around with him?” He asked as nonchalantly as he could. 

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure he’d rather hang out with you.” Youngjae blinked his big, round eyes at him with curiosity, “Rather than not having an appetite, are you sure you’re not just avoiding them and the questions they’ll most likely bombard at you?” He let out a soft sigh, a tiny frown present on his face, “You sure that you’re not avoiding Mark too?” 

“And _why_ would I do that?” Jinyoung slammed his book shut with a bit too much force, startling the younger boy beside him, although it was unintentional. 

“It’s not that hard to notice, really. Even clumsy ol’ me can detect it.” Youngjae managed a sheepish grin, expression softening, “I’m not gonna be like Jackson and bug you about it, but I think you guys should talk, or at least start talking to us first, because I think you’re shutting us out again and Jaebum’s worried. _All_ of us are worried.” He gathered his music theory books back into his arms, standing up with a spring in his steps, “Don’t sulk on your own too long, hyung! It’s not a pretty look on you.” 

Jinyoung let out a single dry laugh, “Then what’s a pretty look on me?” 

Youngjae hummed in thought, donning a bright smile that could rival the sun, “The look you have on when Mark is around.”

 

\------

 

It didn’t take Jaebum long to crack. 

“Okay, you are completely getting on my nerves, Park Jinyoung.” Jaebum shut the door behind him as he marched towards Jinyoung, who was lounging on his bed in the middle of reading. Jinyoung glanced up from his page to meet Jaebum’s perturbed eyes, deep-seated with patience waning into a thin line. 

“Does seeing me indulge myself in a good book irritate you that much?” Jinyoung sighed, clasping his book shut as he sat up straight, about to make a leave for it. “Then I’ll go somewhere else where my _nerdiness_ won’t unhinge you.” 

“I’m not talking about you reading, Jinyoung, I’m talking about you being-- _unreasonable_.” Jaebum let out an exasperated sigh, arms akimbo as he tried to block Jinyoung’s way, “I know your attitude is shit and your temper is volatile, but you’ve been acting shittier than ever. It's been three fucking weeks. What happened, Jinyoung? I thought we were all making progress with one another, but since that day, you haven’t talked to us one bit. You’ve completely shut us out.” 

“I did talk to you guys. I talked to Jackson.” 

“You told him to go eat an rat’s ass.” Jaebum rolled his eyes, moving to take a seat on the edge of his bed, ignoring Jinyoung’s dirty glare for not asking permission. 

“Well, that’s what he gets for being annoying.” Jinyoung shrugged passively, “and didn’t you say that my attitude is shit and my temper is volatile? All the more reason to not associate yourselves with me. I mean, if investing your time in a charity case like me inflates your ego, then I’m glad I can suffice your humanitarian advocacies and proclivities for pigeon-holed plebeians. Bet it feels real good and heroic, huh, to reach out to people like me. Because-- what? I look pitiful?” 

Jaebum had his fist inches away from Jinyoung’s nose, but Jinyoung didn’t bat an eye. However, he felt himself slightly tense underneath Jaebum’s glare, his voice low and wavering with suppressed indignation, “Jinyoung, stop that. You know that’s not why I approach you. You know better than to start that shit again.” 

Jinyoung chewed the inside of his lip, studying the older’s sullen expression, noticing that he was straining to control his own temper. But Jaebum was right. He knew better than to start shit again. It was a defense mechanism he has yet to fully put down. Jinyoung leaned away from Jaebum’s fist, donning a soft frown. It took a moment for his voice to work, before he muttered a “sorry”. It was as though the word caused him physical pain, from how his expression twisted into that of a grimace. 

However, Jaebum’s expression softened at the apology, and reclined his fist away. “You’re such a jerk.”

“A certified one, indeed.” Jinyoung uttered beneath his breath, putting his book aside as he stared at the wall ahead of him. 

Jaebum took a deep breath, letting the residues of indignation ebb away before he spoke with light caution, “Talk to me, Jinyoung. What happened?” 

“What makes you think I’ll talk to you?” 

“Jinyoung, I know you’re an emotionally crippled asshole, but I’m your hyung, your friend and your roommate whether you think so or not in that indecisive brain of yours. I don’t know what’s gotten into you that you’re behaving like a detached prick again, as though you’re all alone again and that you have no one to depend on. I’m here, Jinyoung. I’m not here to judge or whatever. I’m here to support you. So talk to me. Don’t bottle it in. Don’t avoid whatever problem you’re facing. As much as it’s hard for you to believe, we actually care about you, even if your lack of social ineptitude leaves us seething until smoke comes out of our ears.” 

He lifted his eyes from the wall to meet Jaebum’s, his steely gaze of genuine interest and concern visible in the rings of his eyes. Trust was an issue for Jinyoung, yet he found himself trusting in the constant familiar company around him little by little, trusting enough to even tell Jaebum briefly about his past the night of the party when they were walking back to their dorm. Jinyoung sighed as Jaebum watched on, waiting for him to continue. He never had the privilege to convey the convoluted puzzles of his emotions, of his thoughts and his mind, the conflict burning in every pulse, so he didn’t know what to say or how to approach it, unable to handle the thought of pity if it was so as projected forth towards him. 

Jaebum beat him to it, though. “It’s Mark, isn’t it?”

Jinyoung stiffened. He didn’t see the point of talking to anyone about this, because it was _stupid_. Mark probably just couldn’t differentiate the concept of friendship properly, mixing it up with infatuation or whatever idiocy he was thinking. Reliving the scene back in the park again in his mind, it sparked another onslaught of warmth in his chest, from both the ire turmoil and the disquietude of his heart, vexed words threatening to spill over like vomit in his tight throat. With nails digging deep into his palms, he caught a glimpse of Jaebum’s solemn and sincere expression of worry, and Jinyoung wanted to wipe that damned look off of his face, because it didn’t suit him when it was directed towards Jinyoung when he didn’t need it-- when he didn’t deserve such worry from a person Jinyoung often spewed spite under unpredictable circumstances. He swallowed the indignation and ignored the dryness of his words. 

“I hate him.” 

Jaebum merely raised his eyebrows, eyes flashing with something-- with knowledge. Then he opened his mouth, “You hate him?” 

There were plenty of reasons why he shouldn’t tell anyone, because it was ephemeral. Mark would realize the foolishness of such suggestion and revert back to their prior state of not knowing what to call themselves as. Everything was burning in his body, and Jinyoung hated the feeling of uncertainty-- of not knowing what to do, because everything keeps rushing and choking him and reminding him of why he couldn’t agree. He shouldn’t let himself confide. 

But he was tired. Always have been, always will be. 

Jinyoung sighed, mulling over his words as he ran a hand over his face. Impetuously, with his hands clenched into fists as he tried to drain the ingrained flurries of pride, or what was left of it, down the drain to speak honestly to Jaebum, he exhaled a slow breath, “I hate him. It’s always him that makes me feel lost and deprived of control.”

Jaebum hummed, head tilting in contemplation, “You hate him, or do you hate the way he makes you _feel_?” 

Jinyoung didn’t answer, lowering his head to stare at his sleeves he was bunching up together. 

“You two are a mystery to me.” Jaebum pondered, eyes flickering towards the white ceiling, “Your chemistry, your bond-- it’s peculiar. You understand each other so well without the need to speak, yet the both of you deny the possibilities the moment it’s mentioned. It’s like the both of you are blind to each other’s affinity, as though the concept of friendship and love are out of this goddamn world. But from an outsider’s view, it’s hard not to notice the way you two look at each other sometimes.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that, except for, “He wants to be more than what we are now-- whatever we are now, but he’s just confused.”

“As much as you’re an asshole, you don’t get to dictate and invalidate other people’s feelings, even if you’re in a state of denial.” Jaebum lightly knocked his fist against his shoulder. “At least, in a state of denial of his reciprocation. How long have you felt this way?” The fact that Jaebum could read him so easily unnerved Jinyoung, but he wasn’t pushing, wasn’t judging or criticizing. He was calm and open, like the rush of cold air on a humid day. 

Jinyoung didn’t know. There wasn’t a certain time he realized it (maybe it was the free meals, the job he found him, the trust he poured into him-- the fact that he was the only exception to his tiny shows of genuine kindness, and the only one he found comfort in amidst the turbulence of conflict, because people like Jinyoung don’t do that much for other people, do they?) but he was certain that for a long period of time, he’d denied it and couldn’t admit to it. 

Mark made him feel different. That was all he knew back then. Jinyoung thought the feelings would fade, but it came flooding back in when they met again after three years, but only this time, it burned a little brighter and warmer than before. 

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” His voice was like gravel, scratchy and dull, “It doesn’t matter if he forgave me. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t hate me. What kind of person develops feelings for someone who put him through pain?” 

“You’re being a tad ridiculous, Jinyoung.”

“I hurt his friend and had people beat the shit out of him. He dropped out of school because he had nowhere else to go.” Jinyoung couldn’t hold back a bark of bitter laughter, “how is that ridiculous?” 

“Jinyoung, you were what? Seventeen back then?” Jaebum frowned, eyebrows knitting in thought, “You were just a kid. You were young, and you still are, but you’ve grown. You’ve changed. You’re not seventeen anymore, and you’re not your seventeen-year old self. Give yourself some credit. You didn’t come this far turning your whole life around to pave a better path for yourself just to call it quits because he makes you feel things you’re not used to feeling.” He said, “Have some belief in him. In yourself.” 

“He won’t be happy. Not with me, theoretically.” Jinyoung said, “There are a multitude of things I still--” _There are a multitude of things I still can’t forgive myself._ He shook his head. 

“Jinyoung, you _simpleton_ ,” Jaebum look at him straight in the eye, “it doesn’t matter what happened in the past. You can still do what you want now and change where you go in the future. People redeem themselves every fucking day. It doesn’t matter who you were because you control who you are today. You changed for yourself, to better yourself, to find happiness-- and well, what if happiness awaits in the person you’ve been avoiding for for the past few weeks? If Mark is able to accept what happened in the past and has forgiven you about it, and to even hint about being _more_ than this-- isn’t that enough proof that he’s, I don’t know, being wholeheartedly serious? Not to mention the fact that he punched the living daylights out of that douchenozzle.”

Jaebum looked at his clenched fists slowly unfurling, “No matter who you used to be, you can still become the person you want to be. And, if in that process, you want to be his person, then be his person. It’s scary-- I know. This whole thing, you and Mark and _feelings_ , but you don’t have to go through it alone.” 

_“I understand that nobody understands me, but I can’t be someone that I’m not. And if I’m someone that doesn’t mind being something else with you, then that’s okay.” ___

“Mark’s not the type to just bring this out of the blue for the hell of it. This means something to him.” Jaebum said quietly, “He-- it’s a subtle change, but he opens up more when you’re around. You two may have history, but you know each other in ways nobody else can.”

Jinyoung let his hands flatten on his lap, loosened from how tight he had clenched them into fists.

“Do you trust him?” 

It was funny, really, how in the beginning, he was being wholeheartedly serious himself when he said that he wouldn’t trust him again. But as time gradually passed and their proximity gradually increased, things between them changed. A vague string of questionable elements about their relationship hung in the air, never teetering towards friendship or anything other than that. How, as they exposed their candid thoughts and lugubrious honesty, trust had already been manifested between them the moment Mark made that first leap of faith and ran after him to mend things when Jinyoung didn’t know what to do.

How easy it was to hesitate, but to listen, when he had let go of Mark that night when he uttered those words. _Trust me._

“I’m learning to.” Jinyoung meant it, “I’m trying to.” 

“Then that’s enough.” Jaebum smiled slightly, “Talk to him, Jinyoung. Get this thing between you and him sorted out. You sulking is annoying the hell out of me. Jackson’s been a clingy brat and I could really get him off my ass any time.” 

“I hate you too.”

“If that’s your way of saying ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re the best hyung ever’, then I hate you as well.” Jaebum laughed lightly, “Learn to rely on us too, when you need guidance. Because it’s not the past anymore. You’re not seventeen anymore. You’re not alone anymore. You have us. You don’t have to carry the whole world by yourself. Everyone deserves a little bit of happiness in their lives. Just remember that, yeah? 'Cause I'm tired of watching you hold yourself back from what's being given to you.” 

When has anyone said those kind of words to him? It was strange. Foreign to him. _Terrifying_. But as Jinyoung looked at his friend’s sincere expression, soft eyes and an encouraging smile, he realized that it must have been foolish of him to think he’d receive pity. What he received instead was understanding, and that was all Jinyoung needed. 

 

\---

 

Jinyoung found himself standing outside of the bookstore one late afternoon after a few days of calming his mind and grasping at the last strings of uncertainty, mulling over the notion if this was what he truly wanted. It was so easy to leave right now, to escape the unknown and avoid the fear of ruining the security of keeping his feelings safe inside a lock and a storage of rotting secrets. But he listened to Jaebum’s words, considered them when he wasn't busy being defensive, thinking about the possibilities and impossibilities of building a relationship with Mark, and what the future may hold-- if this something else wouldn't work out and their lives would go back to that drab, static buzz of a monotonous motion.

He needed a clear mind to make a clear decision. He thought about the consequences and other precarious implications he didn't dare to hope. 

Jinyoung may have been a lot of things, but he wasn't a coward, even as his hands trembled just slightly. It was strange how something like this could instill such apprehension in him when he could teeter on the near edge of death and not even waver. 

Perhaps it was his turn to choose a road himself. 

He could feel his heart thrumming with a sort of agitated energy, spreading towards his stomach and his limbs, igniting the dim flame in his heart and melting away the gelid tendrils of uncertainty and stagnant poignancy. He could still feel the anticipation trickling through his veins. He hated the way he made him feel, how even the thought of him could stir up a storm of emotions. 

He waited outside. It’s been awhile since he’s been in the bookstore, and surprisingly, he missed it. He missed the smell of old paperbacks and parchment paper and the warm atmosphere this quaint, dainty store elicited, how the gilded lights could soften the hard edges of shadows and silhouettes flickering across the walls. The silence had always been tranquil, even if it was on a rainy day and people would huddle inside to protect themselves rather than to genuinely browse through the store’s collection. Jinyoung chanced a glance through the windows. There weren’t much people at a time like this. There was a bespectacled spinster scanning a column of history books, and a middle-aged man perusing the selections of children's books. 

The tangerine-tipped sky was still bright, hazy clouds scattered around the atmosphere. He looked down at his watch to catch the time, but as if on cue, the store entrance opened with a muffled chime of a bell and Mark stepped out, donning a thin jacket over black clothes with his backpack slung over his shoulder, having no regard to the cold weather at all despite the clear skies.

“Mark.”

With a start, Mark turned around. Mark looked relatively the same, but the dark circles around his eyes seemed darker than before. His expression conveyed a certain despondency, however, with how his hooded eyes seem to dim underneath the light, the weariness prominent on his lineaments. He was stunned, mouth parting in surprise as his eyes widened. There was a moment where they just stared at each other, drinking in each other’s presences. 

“Why--” Mark spoke first tentatively, eyebrows drawn together, “why are you here?” 

Jinyoung ignored the kindled burn in his chest, keeping his voice solemn, “Waiting for you.” 

“Why?”

“To talk to you.” 

Mark frowned, “Why?”

Jinyoung rolled his eyes, turning around, “Let’s go somewhere else.” 

He started walking down the sidewalk, but then a surge of apprehension flowed through him, because what if he had assumed too much? What if he wasn’t following, merely rooted in his spot with disbelief? But then he heard quiet footsteps fall in place with his, trailing slightly behind him, and could feel the warmth of his body near his. Jinyoung exhaled a shaky breath. His heart was uneasy but his mind was clear. Silence filled the gaps of their invisible conversation. 

It was an hour later that they were on the streets again after stepping off the bus. Early evening arrived and so did the crowd of bustling people rushing to return back to their homes, where they would be greeted by their families and the warm dinner waiting for their appearance. They walked past billboards and tall buildings and small vendors, bright lights flickering as the sky seemed to darken. It wasn’t until they turned the corner and walked a few more steps did they arrive at a small plaza, a wide space with a brick-patterned ground and a dormant water fountain situated at the center with trees surrounding the vast space. They stood in front of a plexiglass building, a white canopy hovering above the transparent entrance. 

Silence passed.

“I work here.” Jinyoung simply stated. 

“The learning centre?” Mark gazed up at the building, eyes trailing over the words imprinted on the sign and the ads and posters plastered on the windows. 

“Yeah.” Jinyoung said. “I tutor kids at risk.” 

Mark looked at him questioningly, so Jinyoung elaborated a bit more, “That means I tutor kids who are more likely to drop out of school and hang out with the bad crowd, and be influenced by drugs and alcohol. They’re kids who think they don’t have a future, but we work with them to give them opportunities so they don’t walk down the wrong path.” They didn't speak as the automatic doors opened and a young teenager exited the building with a short woman following behind, smiles faint on their faces as they hooked arms together. A broken but mendable relationship.

Mark didn’t speak, didn’t ask any further or question him why he brought him here. He just waited patiently, hands idle in the pocket of his jacket. 

“I’m sorry I ran away.” 

Mark tensed a bit. Then he turned to look at him, “You don’t have to apologize. I know what I said was out of the blue.” 

“I can’t give you what you want.” Jinyoung spoke through his starchy throat, rough as sandpaper. “These kids-- they’re good kids, and we remind them that they are, that they’re just inveigled by their environment. They’ll grow up to be good people, because they had the support they needed. They’ll have faith in themselves and they’ll learn how to laugh and be happy properly. But I didn’t have this kind of opportunity when I was their age. I was raised and taught differently. I didn’t have anything.”

He felt his hands start shaking so he shoved them into his pockets, clenching them into fists, “These kids-- they’ll know how to love. But I don’t. I still don’t know how. Even if I tried, I won’t be able to easily give you what you’re asking for.” 

Jinyoung turned around, and Mark, who was biting his bottom lip, followed suit. “I won’t be able to do that,” He pointed at a couple who were holding hands quite affectionately, giving each other kisses with such brazen, blatant love branded across their lovesick expression, “I won’t be able to hold your hand in public. I won’t be able to hug you to sleep. I won’t be able to tell you that I--” He paused, words hitched in his throat. He took a sharp intake of breath, “I won’t be able to chase away your nightmares, your pain, your trauma, your past. We won’t ever be like one of those normal couples, doing normal intimate things.” He let out a soft sigh, looking Mark directly in the eye, his expression unreadable, “I’m not good for you. There are still a lot of things I can’t give to you yet when I can’t even trust myself.” 

And it was true. These kids-- they were given hope, but when Jinyoung was young, he was only given nails against flesh and a sense of abandonment. Love was a tainted thing for him then, an outwardly concept he couldn’t bring himself to understand and swallow. He’s been alone for so long. He doesn’t know how take care of another person, let alone show them _love_. He couldn’t even look at his own reflection in the mirror for too long, or else he’ll see the resemblances of his father surface across his own face, taunting him with the endless jeers that he’ll turn out to be another monster just like him. 

But that was the thing. He would accept any amount of monsters his mind would throw at him, to cling to him and engulf him whole, but he won’t become a monster himself. 

“But,” Jinyoung closed his eyes, unclenching his hands, “I’m willing to try, if you are.” 

_“Because I know that everyone’s survival looks a little bit different from each others. Yours just looked a little bit like death.”_

_“Besides, you’re not who you were in the past before. You’ve changed, and I think changed behaviour is the best form of an apology anybody could ever receive, especially when you’ve changed for nobody else but yourself.”_

_“You’re not alone anymore.”_

_“Everybody deserves a little bit of happiness.”_

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to give you the things you need, too.” Mark said softly, his eyes skittering across the people walking across the plaza, “You’re not the only person who was raised differently. I’m not asking for you to make it all go away, because truthfully, I know it won’t. Our pain won’t go away just because we have each other, but maybe we can make it easier to go through if we do have each other.” He looked at him with much tenderness, “I know we won’t be like them. Those normal people, but I’m okay with it. I don’t need all that. The most intimate thing we can do is to show each other our most worst. At our lowest. At our weakest and most vulnerableness. It doesn’t matter if I can’t hold your hand or hold you. You choosing to stay by my side is enough for me. Talking to you is enough. That’s all I want. That’s all I ask for.” His eyes were no longer dim but rather illuminated with a faint glow of comfort, “I won’t ask you anything you don’t want to give.” 

"Is this what you really want?"

"I thought I made that clear the first time I brought it up."

Jinyoung released a breath he didn’t know he had held. His heart clenched and he could feel it flutter with warmth, because there he went again-- saying things that made him feel things. He didn’t know whether to say that he hated him for making him feel this way, because it scared him. It scared him how his heart could so easily be swayed by the meaning behind his words. He still didn’t know how to get used to it.

“Funny. Two fuck ups getting together.” He commented wryly. 

“So, does that mean we’re something else, then?” 

Jinyoung swept his eyes across the vicinity, at the sun starting to set with airy strokes of warm colours sweeping across the sky, ethereal and unreachable and towering over them. He let the words settle in. He let the feelings settle in. He let the hope settle in. His shoulders relaxed as tension flowed out of him, replacing it with calmness that eased the churning of his gut. 

“Yeah. We’re something else, then.” 

Mark’s mouth stretched into a wide smile, eyes twinkling. It looked so genuine and real, more authentic than the perfunctory ones he’d forced to wear on his face to hide whatever anxieties he felt. But he was smiling sincerely at him with quiet joy, the initial weariness ebbing away into a canvas of alleviation. The atmosphere and dynamic between them didn’t really change. It was still placid-- a calm quietude and understanding they both shared. It’s just that they transitioned into something deeper, something more meaningful for the both of them, even if it was an unfathomable possibility to ever think of at the very beginning. They'll never do what normal couples do, because frankly, the both of them wouldn't be able to handle such intimacy because of how unfamiliar it was. Even after these years of being separated from his father, a single, unexpected touch from a person could provoke a violent reaction, even if they had no ill intention. It was just the way it is. Too much baggage. Too much fixed habits of keeping troubles to themselves. Too much hurt in one body. But it was okay. This-- he least expected himself to let _this_ happen, but it was part of finding happiness, wasn't it? To not let his coldness, his demons, the constant reminder of his past hold him back, and how easy it was to attain it when he wasn't occupied with belittling himself and the self-hatred. Maybe they' were an odd pair, but they didn't need the needy touches to convey their feelings. Each other's company was enough to suffice the murky lingerings of their hearts. Maybe they won't heal each other, but they'll heal with one another. They'll learn. 

He didn’t know how to get used to this _togetherness_ , but in the end, at least he’ll have plenty of time to accept it-- to accept this-- _them_. And himself. 

Was it fate? Highly unlikely. 

Forgiveness was what brought them together.

”We’re something else, then. We’re something else.” Mark repeated it to confirm the validity-- the actuality of it happening. Jinyoung could still see the vestiges of melancholy in his face, perhaps something that won’t simply fade at the hands of having each other, but the smile he had on was enough to change his countenance to a softer, brighter one, that didn’t speak much of his grief, but more of a muted fruition. Jinyoung didn’t think he’d be able to make him smile like that, but he did, and it only furthermore established vivid realization that this was not a hallucination-- that he wasn’t a mere phantasm in a dream that his subconscious mind discreetly sought for. He was not a weakling, not a ghost, not an illusion-- he was real. And his feelings were real. How ridiculous it was to mull over the past, when it had no power over the present.

Mark sighed, tilting his chin up so he could face the glowing sky, “I don’t think I can sleep tonight.”

Jinyoung’s shoulders felt lighter, and maybe that was because he wasn’t carrying the whole world all on his own anymore. 

He restrained a smile, “Since when does sleep come easy for people like us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DLKFJA;LSKJDFSLAKJ finally these two bois like bruh took u guys 13 chapters (coughsorry)  
> i'TS ALWAYS TE GETTING TOGETH Er PART THAT STUMPS ME which was why i put a lil' time skip in there so it'd be more practical for jinyoung to think everything over before taking a step forward. took me forever to write this out. orz i'm gonna go hide under my blanket and cry how uguuhuuhughu this turned out
> 
> BUT thank you soo much for reading as always!!! it always makes my heart flutter whenever you guys leave such nice messages ;w;
> 
> WE'RE NEARING THE END THOUGH. I believe the next chapter would be the last one, at least that's why i'm thinking!!!  
> either way, thank u all so much for coming all this way and supporting this story!!!! i'm absolutely touched. ty all


	14. one hopeful day

Mark studied the cracks of the alabaster ceiling, slabs of sunlight filtering in through the gaps of the curtains. He could see the shape of a crooked spider or a tree branch if he stared at the ceiling hard enough, but his red-rimmed eyes burned with the lack of sleep. Though his body was tired and craved for every last pint of rest, his mind was bustling with liveliness that pleaded for more awakeness. It was a tug-o-war between the mind and the body, the soul and the heart. He wasn’t sure how long he’s been laying on bed. He hasn’t gotten up except to relieve the ache in his bladder, and even then, he still felt lead-limbed and hazy with exhausted energy in his brain. 

He tried to remember the features of his brother whose face became blurrier every single day. His brother had the shape of his father’s nose, strong and aquiline, and hooded eyes that lost that whimsical twinkle as he got older and responsibilities and expectations became heavier. A light complexion that darkened substantially beneath the Los Angeles sun, freckles dotting the random points of his face, and a grin so wide and toothy that made him seem more boyish than that of a grown man. How he lost that boyishness when he was forced to accept the reality that youth was merely a temporary concept when he was expected to succeed more. And more. And more. That passion, artistic expression, and self-identity was an unnecessary and putrid facet when it came to garnishing money. Mark couldn’t remember how he looked like when he was sad, or when he was angry-- his brother’s face blurred and merged into an uncanny representation of a ephemeral expression that’d lead his memory for a stray second. Mark was forgetting. But he didn’t want to forget. 

His grey cadaver floating in the sea of red in the porcelain tub, unmoving and lifeless. Eyes closed and lips parted, how peaceful he looked when he took his own life; how he had to resort to such a method in order to find peace; how he left Mark to deal with the monsters alone. 

He didn’t want to forget but he wanted to forget. 

Mark placed the crook of his elbow over his eyes, as if the blackness could shield the unwanted memories away from appearing before him. But it’ll always be there to suffocate him. To bury him back underneath the quicksand pulling him into the abyss of desperation, his brother’s last words the night before his death ingrained into the crooks of his brain. 

_“I’m sorry. For everything. But you’re alive, Markie. Please don’t forget to live.”_

Mark slowly sat up, eyes fluttering towards his hands that were cold despite the season being warmer. He could see the purple veins showing underneath his flesh. He pulled his sleeves down and got up, shuffling towards the closet across from his bed, opening it and rummaging through the hanging clothes only to reemerge with a shoe box in hand. He sat down and leaned his back against the wall, unclasping the lid and delicately placing the box down on the floor to look at the contents inside. 

All there was in the box was just a picture. Nothing else. 

Mark picked the photo up by the edge, blowing the small particles of dust that have accumulated on the surface. It was a picture of him at the tender age of six, his brother, and his father all in the same frame standing beside each other, his mother behind the camera. That was the only instance when his mother hadn’t opposed of his father’s suggestion of just taking one group photo of the ‘guys’, and perhaps the only faint, happy memory Mark could somewhat remember. They were in a garden, their eyes squinting through the blinding sunlight, a green landscape behind them. Mark felt his heart clench at the sight of his brother, who looked young and optimistic, full of life in the grin he adorned. His father looked the same, although he donned less wrinkles in that age. Mark was smiling in the picture, which was a rare sight for Mark himself. 

This picture had his brother’s young face, but it didn’t help restore the matured image of his brother before he died. Why was the phantasm of his death more vivid than the normal memories he had of him? They were fading, ebbing away into a cesspool of black, then into an intrusive crimson ocean bleeding into the bathroom, then the flickering lights of red and blue from the police sirens that barreled him with beady eyes in an accusative tone, then his mother gripping him by the shoulders with her burgundy nails digging marks in the crevices of his skin, screaming at him _why couldn’t it be you--_

A knock on the door startled him out of his reverie, wide eyes settling back into the present. He didn’t realize he was clutching the photo shakingly tight, wrinkling it in his grasp. He let it fall to the floor in front of him when he heard another soft knock on the door. The sunlight seemed to have dimmed in the midst of his turmoil. 

His legs felt heavy as he trudged towards the door, wrapping his hand around the copper knob that was colder than his hand. A cloak of goosebumps enwrapped him as he turned it with a quiet click, opening it to see the familiar black pea coat, the leather bag hanging from a lean shoulder, and eyes that seemed softer than usual, a complex dark brown that held depths as deep as the ocean. The both of them stood there silently, staring with an unspoken language tethering them together in the reflection of the gilded light. The gelidity of the room behind him didn’t feel as cold anymore. 

“You have a rather frustrating habit of making people worry about you.” Jinyoung spoke first, sounding nonchalant and somewhat disinterested. 

“You were worried about me?” Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I didn’t say that.” Jinyoung grumbled, “I said _people_ , as in your stupid co-worker, my pain-in-the-ass roommate and his goddamn sparkling boyfriend who wouldn’t stop bugging the living hell out of me. You wouldn’t pick up your phone and it’s already close to the evening.” 

“But since you took the time to come here to check up on me, that means you _were_ worried.” 

“That’s because you wouldn't answer your stupid phone.”

“So you admit it?” 

Jinyoung narrowed his eyes, “Don’t twist my words. Are you going to let me in or what?” 

Mark opened the door wider to beckon him in. Closing the door behind them, he walked back to where he was before he was interrupted in his train of thought, taking a seat on the floor. Jinyoung slipped out of his shoes, placing his bag down near the bed before he took the time to quietly survey the place. The lights and heater was off, leaving a an impression of stagnant melancholy to permeate the room. 

“You haven’t eaten or drank anything, have you?” Jinyoung muttered, and when Mark didn’t answer, he clicked his tongue, “And to think you’re older than me, Mark.”

“What happened to ‘hyung’?”

“You said you didn’t care about honorifics, so I dropped it.”

“Fair enough.” Mark felt a smile tug at his lips, eyes lowering fondly down to the floor, the smile fading slowly into a tight-lipped frown when he focused on the photo that was lying on the floor. He felt Jinyoung’s approaching presence before he sat across from him, leaving a breathable distance between them, wary of Mark’s need of space. But there was an absurdity to this situation, something uncanny and vulnerable because someone was here to see him in such a pathetic state like this. There was something bitter in his mouth, and for some reason, he could feel laughter bubbling in his chest rising through his throat, spilling through his mouth like vomit and he didn’t know why. He leaned forward, head bent down that hid his ugly expression, his laughter vehement but silent. 

“Why are you laughing?” Jinyoung’s voice was sullen, not a budge in his stoic expression as he watched a juncture of temporary frenzy take over him. It was just like the night of their intoxicated conversation, when Mark had miserably laughed at the bizarre magnitude of their circumstances, and the instability of his emotions and the lack of comprehension of their situation. 

Laughter waned into self-deprecating chuckles, before all there was was the heavy breaths his lungs took too much effort to heave out. He slowly sat back up, the wry smile on his face twitching, “It’s just-- funny, in my head, because the first time you came here, it was the anniversary of my brother’s death. And this time, I can’t seem to remember how he looks like.”

Jinyoung didn’t move, but his voice quieted to match Mark’s volume, “And like I said the first time I came here. You don’t need to tell me.” _If you don’t want to._

But Mark doesn’t know _when_ he’ll be able to tell him-- or anyone for that matter. It’s been rotting inside of him so long, eating away the walls of his insides and turning it into a wasteland of putrefied emotions. Could he handle such grotesqueness even when he’s old and wrinkly, when his skin starts to sag and his hearing becomes nonexistent and his vision goes hazy? Would he have to carry this penitent burden all alone when he wasn’t alone? His chest hurt. Looking at the photo made it hurt even more, like needles pinned against flesh, like sordid bruises and a few broken ribs. 

“Mark,” There was a tug on his sleeve, and he looked up at Jinyoung’s face, a slight furrow in the space between his brows, eyes garnishing a sheen of worriment hidden beneath the ice, “breathe.”

“I _am_ breathing.” Mark said hoarsely, feeling words clog in his throat, gnawing at his lip until he could taste the iron, “I breathe everyday, but my _brother_ is the one who stopped breathing. I miss him, even if he didn’t do anything to stop my mother, even if he was too cowardly to stand up for his own beliefs and for his own path. He still cared for me. He told me that I won’t have to live through what my mother puts me through alone. He said that he’d take care of me. But I didn’t do anything to stop him. I knew but I didn’t reach out to him. Even as my mother forced him to be some kind of meal ticket and pushed him too much, telling him that the unhappiness he felt was a phase just like my father experienced and that he didn’t need a therapist for it, I just hid and listened.”

He whispered dejectedly, “It should have been me in that tub. Not him.” 

“You are unbelievable.” Jinyoung muttered, and Mark lifted his downcast eyes to meet his stormy ones, “You’ve been blaming yourself over something that was out of your control. Your mother is the one who sucked all the life out of him the moment she turned him into a personalized money-making machine.” Jinyoung didn’t sugarcoat his words, gripping Mark’s sleeve tightly, “Feeling guilty over something you had no control over isn’t worth wasting your entire life ruminating about it.” 

Mark knew the tone in his voice, that tone of understanding as though he’s been through this process before. He tried to think about his brother, trying to fit the blurry pieces back together like a puzzle so he could look at his face clearly, but all he could see was the disgusted face of his mother who thought that everything was his fault.

“The mind can’t remember everything. But he’s in there.” Jinyoung pointed at the left side of his chest, eyes steady and unwavering. He was a pillar of strength and security for Mark, “He’ll always be in there, so don’t taint the memory of your brother you have left with all that regret when it’s not your fault.” 

Mark’s breath hitched, and he stilled. His eyes burned. 

_“It’s all your fault.”_

“It’s not your fault.” 

The notion ingrained deeply in his brain from his mother was that everything was always his fault, but the sincerity in Jinyoung’s voice, the words that held the wispy meaning of truth completely grabbed hold of him and he couldn’t stop shaking. 

“Can you say that again?” He asked quietly, keeping his head down. 

There was a beat of silence. And softly, “It’s not your fault.” 

Jinyoung let go of his sleeve, his hand hovering underneath his chin as he caught droplets of something wet. A few escaped past the gaps of his fingers, plopping down onto the sheen surface of the picture, dampening it as the vitreosity seeped into the photographic paper. A sharp pang oscillated in his chest, sending a trill of entombed emotions to rack his body with tear-stained lament. He couldn’t see through the cloud of blurriness in his vision, an aqueous curtain of chiffon blocking the lucidity of his view even as they dripped silently.

_It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault._

That was all Mark ever wanted to hear. 

\----------

((“I’m not made of glass, you know.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I meant, you don’t have to be so cautious around me. I’m not made of glass. I know that you notice a lot of things about me, but I notice a lot of the things you do for me too. Carving a path for me in a crowd to prevent them from bumping into me, holding me by the collar and the sleeves--”

“That’s because you don’t like being touched.”

“Yeah, by people I don’t know. But I know you. And I don’t mind if it’s from you. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.” 

Jinyoung considered his words for a moment-- the honesty of it. Then, he raised his hand up into the air, waiting, “Then can I?” 

Mark smiled, lifted his hand to connect his palm with his. Their hands were roughly the same, but Jinyoung’s hand was smoother, much smoother, and warm. It left a tingling feeling to his own hand, a kind of viviality that provoked a cloak of goosebumps and made Mark want to jump out of his own skin. Mark stared at their connected palms, at the innocent touch that only nestled a pure nature and no other motives. Nothing else. His eyes lifted to meet Jinyoung’s, who was staring at their hands as well.

Mark said, “I won’t ask for anything more.” 

Jinyoung looked at him for a momentary pause before he let his gaze drop back to their hands, pressing his own closer to him for a beat longer before he pulled away and moved back. 

“Yeah, I know.” )) 

\--------------

((“When we don’t know who to hate, we hate ourselves instead.” Youngjae hummed, stepping on dead leaves as the sounds of the crushed, brittle remains reverberated across the placid neighborhood, “Jinyoung seems like the type of person to do that. Too much anger he doesn’t know how to handle so he directs it all to himself.” 

Mark considered it quietly, “That might be true.”

“Do you do that, Mark?” Youngjae stopped in his tracks to face him curiously, “Do you direct all that negativity towards yourself when you don’t know what to do to get rid of them?”

He bit his lip, choosing to answer in silence instead.

“I used to be like that too, you know.” Youngjae picked up a leaf, examining it before he threw it up in the air, “I didn’t know what to do to get rid of all those nasty emotions. It eats you all up inside. I did some pretty bad things to myself, and to others, and I’m not proud of it.” He turned to smile brightly at him, “Music was there for me when nobody else was. I guess that’s why I’m still here today, and then I met you guys.”

“So, you know, I guess I wanted to let you guys know that it’s okay to be sad and angry and awfully hopeless. But at the end of the day, things will be okay. Just don’t let your insides rot from all that negativity to the point of being unable to build yourself back up.” ))

\------------

Bright neon lights glowed in his periphery, illuminating the nightfall with vibrant colours amidst the rush of downtown. A distorted symphony of chatter pervaded the hearty neighborhood, eateries and chains still open and bustling, late night restaurants still packed with hungry people. The evening was cold, but with the emanation of body heat from the crowd, it wasn’t that bad. 

“Look, I’m just saying--” Jackson vehemently exclaimed throughout the cacophony, pacing quickly throughout the crowd as he paved a path for Mark to follow behind as he listened to his bizarre tangent, “what if humans lost all their skin every winter and and walked around as skeletons? And trees get fucking pissed because they have to clean up our skin that's all over their lawns?”

“What does that have anything to do with the earth?” Mark squinted at him in incredulity. 

“When did I mention the earth?”

“You were ranting about global warming and how all existing corporeality is doomed unless we all relocate to Mars if it’s even possible to cultivate life there. Then you suddenly talked about humans losing their skin and trees being pissed off.” 

“Yeah, well, it could be a _sign_ that global warming is coming to rob all of our lives.” 

“Maybe you’re just high.”

“Shut up,” Jackson laughed, lightheartedly shoving him away to which Mark easily grinned, “You can’t even listen to my rants anymore without wanting to harsh my mellow.” 

“But _I’m_ still the person who bothers to listen to your little spiels anyways.”

Their friends knew of the progression in their relationship, merely congratulating them with warm smiles and a particular relief etched onto the genuine features of their faces. Yet, Mark could see the confusion behind Jackson’s eyes whenever they never displayed any type of affection in front of others or the concern in Jaebum’s face whenever the both of them seemed distant from each other. Even if they were friends, they’d never understand the quiet dynamic between Mark and Jinyoung-- how they didn’t need to blatantly declare their love for each other when they showed it through soft, lingering touches and stares, a silent language between them that didn’t require the usage of tongue. How words didn’t need to be spoken when their presences was enough comfort. They didn’t need to be with each other all the time. They respected each other’s boundaries without seeming avoidant. Sometimes, they wouldn’t talk to each other at all and would just sit there with their knees and shoulders touching, listening to each other’s breathing. It was their definition of intimacy, and it was something they were yet accustomed to, especially for Jinyoung who always seemed hesitant.

Though they had each other, both of them still struggled albeit in different ways. Mark would wake up with a feeling of vacancy and the gnawing reemerging images of unwanted memories, still plaguing at the slopes of his mind, and Jinyoung would merely silently seethe in his own space, fists clenched and a cynical defensive mechanism still in tact. There were instances where they wouldn’t see each other for quite some time, only to cross paths again and bask in each other’s company to make up for lost time. 

But one day, Mark realized as hope slowly filled up the hollow slots of his heart, they’d learn to forgive themselves. They would recover in progression with regression. They would have the kind of growth that hurts and heals at the same time. Mark would wake up after a restful night of sleep with nothing but calmness in his mind, lingering words that whispered “ _it’s not your fault_ ” echoing and the image of his brother would gradually wane but faintly beat in the palpitations of his heart, the ghost of him slowly turning into a spirit as it’d let go of him and fade into the clear skies. The picture of him, his father, and his brother would be framed and would be propped on his nightstand, beaming at him every time he’d open his eyes and turn his head to the side to greet them. He would show Jinyoung his scars properly one day, telling him that he had been unhappy when he was just a mere boy, and that there was no need to worry anymore since it’s been a long time since it's happened.

One day, Jinyoung would trust him enough to tell him about his childhood, about his violent father and the abandonment of his mother, how even in the present day, he was still searching for the people he’s ever hurt just to apologize to them. He’d become more comfortable with the small touches and with disclosing information he wouldn’t dare to speak of in the past, but there would a chatoyant light in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and his eyes would crinkle when he didn’t stifle his smiles and his laughs. And one day, he would receive a letter from his father in prison wishing to meet him in person, and Mark would lightly grab hold of his clenched fist as Jinyoung held back the compulsion to hurt something because his mind couldn’t fathom the possibility of seeing his past tormentor, but Mark would go with him anyways. The day he would stop hating his father would be the day he started living.

One day, Mark would work up the courage to make a phone call back home to his mother wanting to attempt to mend things, feeling his hands tremble violently as he tried to keep a good grip on his phone, the blood draining from his skin and his eyes wide and lips quivering and his knees shaking and his head hurting as he heard her raspy voice answer his call. He’d realize his mother never changed her delusional ways, but with the support he had and with the solemnity and maturity he’s acquired throughout the years of solitude, he’d tell her that she could blame him all she wanted to her own pleasure, but she will always be the sole perpetrator of their family’s self-destruction. 

One day, Mark would look at his friends for a moment, only to open his mouth to say, “ _Thank you_.” 

One day, BamBam would phone him just to talk to Jinyoung, their concise conversation ending up with him saying, " _I forgive you._ " And Mark would remember to frequently call him as much as he could.

One day, he’d learn to talk. 

One day, he’d wake up on the anniversary of his brother’s death, feeling the same heavy pang in his vacant chest, but it will be the nth time he would spend the day of bitter poignancy with someone else. And he’ll wake up next day to find that he wasn’t alone.

And one day, they’ll be okay, because broken crayons still colour. 

“And _that’s_ why you’re my best friend!” Jackson grinned, throwing an arm around him, “We’re, like, platonic soulmates, you know? I get you, you get me. We’re totally meant to be.”

“ _Who_ said you’re my best friend?” Mark shoved his arm off, snorting at Jackson’s feigned and exaggerated expression of hurt. 

“Jesus Christ, stop spending so much time with Jinyoung.” Jackson scoffed, but playfully knocked on him on the shoulder with a buoyant grin. They neared their destination, the ‘open’ sign of the hot pot house flashing vividly and eliciting dim silhouettes on the ground. A figure clad in black leaned against building, lethargically typing on the bright screen of his phone. 

“Speak of the devil-- Jinyoung! My brother!” Jackson hollered, opening his arms wide only for his advances to be rejected as Jinyoung swatted away his grabby hands.

“ _Who_ said that I'm your brother?” Jinyoung arched an eyebrow at him with a disinterested look. 

“Oh my god,” Jackson sniffled in exasperation, “you guys are fucking mean. I’m going inside to meet my one and only true brother _and_ best friend.” He sent them a pouty look before he opened the doors with the tinkle of a bell and rushed inside, his earsplitting screech reaching past their ears as he shouted, “ _Im Jaebum_!” 

“Idiot,” Jinyoung muttered sotto voce.

“What are you doing outside?” Mark asked.

“Waiting for you.” Jinyoung put his hands in his pockets, “And also because their PDA was gross so I needed to step out before my gag reflex failed on me.” 

Mark realized that the empty spaces in his heart-- the emptiness he felt, had been slowly filling up with the special people he’s met, that the hope he felt wasn’t hopeless. His heart had been hollow and empty like the spaces between the stars in the sky, but now, he felt more inclined to let himself feel the warmth, the spark in his chest and the happiness he’s been holding himself back from experiencing. He was learning to live, through trials and tribulations, learning to accept the fact that he may be but a speck of dust in a large, vast world, but rather than being nothing, he was gradually learning to be something, that maybe his lightless future wasn’t embellished with blinding glimmers but with dim lanterns of light that flickered like blurry phosphenes. And maybe, just maybe, the empty spaces in his heart was just waiting for the right person to come along.

They went into the restaurant, the gust of the air conditioner hitting his face as the doors slowly closed behind them with a muted clasp beneath all the clamor of the hearty interior. They maneuvered past the other customers as they approached their table, recognizing Jackson’s whiny, tinny voice as he heard Youngjae’s distinctive, bubbly laugh that pierced through the dull drone of tangled conversations. The gilded light illuminated their warm, laughing faces, and he merely kept standing even as Jinyoung took a seat and glanced up at him with a knowing look. 

“Hey, Mark.” Jaebum greeted him with a cheerful grin on his face, “You okay?”

Mark took the chance to take in the sight of each one of them, in the spirited atmosphere and the established affinity between them. 

“Yeah,” Mark felt his mouth stretch into a wide, genuine smile, “I’m fine.”

And this time, he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THATS ALL FOLKS BEfore my cheesy speeH IM SORRY if this seemed shorter than the usual chapters!! I racked my brain for a suitable ending and i didnt want to drag it out too long and wanted this to be more hopeful cuz damn my angsty ass made those previous chapsters freaking sad  
> (also the skin and trees thing jackson was ranting about is from a tumblr post i found)  
> MOVING ON
> 
> THANK YOU ALLLL SOOOOO MUCH FOR THE LOVE AND FEEDBACK AND SUPPORT AND LOVELY COMMENTS like this was my first eevr fic and i didnt expect so much love!! Im just so happy to receive so much feedback and it always makes my heart swell to read all of your comments. Thank you all so much for enjoying this story and suffering with me until the end ; u ;
> 
> This was the poem that inspired me to writr all this angst out-- its by Ernest Hemingway:  
> "If there's empty spaces in your heart,  
> They'll make you think it's wrong,  
> Like having empty spaces,  
> Means you never can be strong,  
> But I've learned that all these spaces,  
> Means there's room enough to grow,  
> And the people that once filled them,  
> Were always meant to be let go,  
> And all these empty spaces,  
> Create a strange sort of pull,  
> That attract so many people,  
> You wouldn't meet if they were full,  
> So if you're made of empty spaces,  
> Don't ever think it's wrong,  
> Because maybe they're just empty,  
> Until the right person comes along."
> 
> I wrote this story not only with emo markjin in mind but with the role of friendship and the growth in character, because people ARE capable of overcoming whatever obstacles they face no matter what theyve gone through in the past, that people who have been hurt and are hurting are strong too in the small ways many would often overlook. i mean with this story, theres a lot of heavy emotional stuff in here, but i also wanted to let you all know that whatever youre dealing with right now--youre not alone. That you are more than what people say you are worth (i may have exaggerated mark's mom's personality but srsly ppl who dictate over your life and purposely invalidate you and your problems are the worse). You are all loved and beautiful and totally deserve happiness!! And i hope that no matter how gloomy and shitty life may be, i want to remind you that there will always be a shed of light and hope amidst that darkness, like how mark found his lights near the end when he realized he wasnt alone. :' 
> 
> (i also wrote all thsi on my phone so im sorry for all the spelling mistakes. I refreshed this page by accident once and all i could do was stare at all my hard work gone in that single accidental tap fml) 
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you all!! until next time!! ♡♡♡

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if the format is a bit weird. I did this on my phone and I'm still getting used to the site. ; u;  
> Thank you for reading and I hope I can keep you interested in the future!


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